


I Can't Be Fixed and I Don't Care To Be Saved

by Haych_Aych_Ach, Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra (Haych_Aych_Ach)



Series: While All The Time a Part of Me Cries Stop Stop [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Abused people choosing to be abusers, Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, Asexual Character, Bad Victim Matt Murdock, Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Death, Cuddling & Snuggling, Culture Shock, Dehumanization, Dissociation, F/M, Foggy and Matt do love each other eventually, Fuck Responsible Storytelling, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hand Feeding, Hold Out Until Chapter 104 for Explicit Communication, Hope and Despair, Internalized Dehumanization, Internalized Victim Blaming, M/M, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Misgendering, Misunderstandings, Nobody is a cinnamon roll, Nonbinary Character, Other, Panic Attacks, Past Brainwashing, Platonic Cuddling, Poetry, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Rape, Rape Culture, Self-Harm, Shame Surrounding Sexual Assault, Stalking, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Thoughts, Teddy Bears, Things do get better eventually I promise, Torture, Trans Character, Trust Issues, Unlikable Characters, Unreliable Narrator, Victim Blaming, but they're not exactly in a romantic relationship, inaccurate depictions of law school, nor a fix-it fic, rape jokes, this is not a happy fic, though Foggy aspires to be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-13 17:30:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 141
Words: 330,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5711002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haych_Aych_Ach/pseuds/Haych_Aych_Ach, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haych_Aych_Ach/pseuds/Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt and meta on the Daredevil kink meme, found here: http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/6237.html?thread=11775325#cmt11775325</p><p>Matt is a very expensive, high-class slave. So when he's given to a Foggy Nelson by an extremely drunk biological mother, shit hits the fan, and doesn't stop for quite a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. but listen: those are hoofbeats on the frosty autumn air

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thank you to all my commenters on this prompt, the slave mix-it-up prompts, and the other fillers of the slave mix-it-up prompts. Without all of you I wouldn't have written a thing.
> 
> Huge trigger warnings for brainwashing, dehumanization, internalized abuse, victim blaming, rape culture, noncon of many flavors (see the end notes for details on what noncon occurs between Matt and Foggy), depersonalization, and intense problems communicating.
> 
> Though things do start to really get better after certain breakthroughs are made.
> 
> Title is a reference to Jeanann Verlee's poem 'Men', which can be read here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/39704299450/men-want-to-fix-you-save-you-or-fuck-you-i
> 
> Disclaimer: the actions characters take in this story, the things they are into, and how they behave is not a reflection on the author or commenter/reader's own beliefs, interests, morals, personality, etc. Fiction is fiction. What some characters like to do and what they think is right is not necessarily correlating with reality or truth, etc.

Foggy comes back from the store--he's all moved into his apartment for Columbia, since he can't exactly live on campus anyway but definitely not with a slave, the dorm would be twice as expensive and much crappier--and freezes because he hears Matt audibly crying.  
  
He feels a tiny twitch of relief because jesus christ, Matt apparently has actual emotions and is not just an uncanny valley robot slave who agrees with everything Foggy says and never, ever seems to have opinions or feelings of his own.  
  
But then he realizes again that it's _Matt audibly crying_ and feels like an asshole. And it's not just crying, either, it's the kind of low, hysterical wailing that Foggy's only heard at funerals before. It's heartwrenching to hear, and Foggy freezes in the narrow hallway because he has no idea what to do.  
  
It takes him a second, but he at least closes the door and puts his stuff down on his desk in his room, and then goes to the bathroom, where the crying is coming from.  
  
He knocks gently on the door after dawdling for a few more minutes, during which the crying neither lets up nor gets quieter. It's actually sounding more and more hysterical and horrifying as it goes on, and Foggy's starting to worry about Matt choking or fainting from the hyperventilating.  
  
"Matt? Buddy? You okay in there?"  
  
It's a monumentally stupid question but Foggy has no idea what to actually say to that otherwise.  
  
The door swings open after a moment to reveal Matt, shaking and on his knees and hands on the floor. He looks so awful for a second Foggy's worried he's hit himself or something--his eyes are red and there's still visible tear tracks on his face, which given how much Matt seems to value looking doll-perfect all the time means something is really, really wrong.  
  
"Hey, Matt," he says, his voice going soft and gentle, "What's wrong? Did somebody break in, or--?"  
  
Matt swallows tears and says, voice wrecked, "No, si--Foggy, nothing of that sort happened. I'm fine."  
  
Foggy can't help himself. "Is that why you're crying in, like, a Biblical floods kind of way?"  
  
Matt twitches in a way that reminds Foggy of a flinch, and Foggy mentally facepalms at his own mouth, and instead says, "Is there anything I could do--is there someone you'd like to call or talk to?"  
  
Because Matt's file had said that his longest-time owner--a guy named Winter, who looked vaguely malevolent and definitely batshit crazy dangerous in the picture--had basically left Matt alone to be trained under his slave Summer, who the file noted was renowned as being a hyper-competent slave as well. Maybe Matt would want to talk to her, or a psychologist or something.  
  
Matt blinks and looks down, pressing his face to the floor, and says through hiccuping fresh tears, "Could I--may I call S--the slave who trained me, please, sir? Foggy?"  
  
Foggy's heart twists, Matt must really be in bad shape, and then goes to get his cellphone, and hands it to Matt, saying as reassuringly as he can, "Yes, seriously buddy--call--you _can_ call whoever you need to, I want you to feel better." He mentally kicks himself for the order that he'd choked off. Foggy had vowed to not give Matt any orders at all if he could help it, and since he was going to be a lawyer, he knew he could learn to help it. If he could learn Torts, he could not be a dick to Matt, who Foggy couldn't free by law and couldn't sell except back to Rosalind for at least five years, and since Rosalind had had Matt literally strip naked and crawl to Foggy on the floor of the diner when she'd given Foggy Matt, he refused to do that to Matt.  
  


* * *

  
  
Matt can't believe he's so pathetic. He hasn't cried like this for years and years and years, not since his dad died or Stick left him after dooming him to never be freed.  
  
He remembers the numbers and after a shaky few moments manages to guess the configuration of the number keypad to call Summer's cell phone number.  
  
"Yes, sir and/or ma'am?" Her voice chimed after a second.  
  
A few more tears flowed. Matt mentally upgraded his self-administered punishment from cuts then nail polish remover to breaking two toes on a foot. He couldn't do things like this. This was disgusting.  
  
"Summer," he said, voice broken. Matt had never hated himself more than now. Summer would hate him, too, for wasting her time and making a fool of her. _Bend, not break,_ she'd always said and had him say, and Matt felt like nothing else but shattered.  
  
"Matt? What's the situation?" She asked.  
  
"I--Summer, I can't--"  
  
"Take a deep breath this instant," Summer said, firmly. Matt obeyed.  
  
"Now, do you need my help with your owner?"  
  
"Y-yes. Sorry--"  
  
"Don't say sorry to me. I'm not the one who owns you, and I told you, if you needed help badly enough to ask for it I'd step up to the plate."  
  
Matt swallowed his despair and felt a newfound hope bloom in his chest. If Summer was willing to help, the situation could be salvaged.  
  
"Thank you," he whispered.  
  
"Pay it forward in the future," Summer said firmly, and then, "Now hand the phone to your owner, I'm going to get myself an appointment with you tomorrow. I will come to you and fix this, Matt, do not worry."  
  
Matt obediently held the phone back to Foggy, who took it. Then he lay his head back down, the cool tile soothing his face.  
  


* * *

  
Foggy had watched the phone conversation half with the uncomfortable feeling that he was seeing something he shouldn't. Then Matt held the phone to Foggy, so he took it, and when he did, a smooth female voice in his ear said, "Sir?"  
  
So this was Matt's slave friend from when he was younger. "I'm Foggy," he blurted out.  
  
"Of course, sir. Now, may I come over and help you with the situation regarding Matt?"  
  
Foggy blinks. "Huh?"  
  
"May I come over, sir, and help you with Matt? I understand that for new owners, a slave that's as high-maintenance as us can be difficult to cope with. If I may, I'd like to help the adjustment period transition smoothly into a more sustainable living environment, if that's agreeable to you, sir?"  
  
Foggy feels led on, somehow, and so he doesn't say anything for a second, looking at Matt's sad, hidden face, his tight back.  
  
"Please, sir," and the tone is more desperate now, "Please let me come and help Matt."  
  
Foggy snaps out of it and says, "Yes, yeah, of course! How soon?"  
  
"Would six a.m. tomorrow be agreeable to you, sir?" And now she sounds back to strangely cool.  
  
"Yeah, I can do it," he says without thinking. Foggy's still going to be asleep by then. Fuck.  
  
"Very good, sir. Thank you so much, I will see you tomorrow."  
  


* * *

  
Matt smiles to himself as he hears the conversation and Summer's little manipulation. She had told him that begging worked often but he stops smiling because this owner didn't respond positively to begging at all and Matt has no idea what to do, how to steer the situation.  
  
"I'm sorry, Foggy," he says because honestly why not, "I didn't mean to be a disruption."  
  
Foggy sighs and Matt almost visibly cringes. Why can't he be like literally any owner Matt's ever had or even heard about? It's exhausting. Matt can't keep getting everything wrong, at some point he'll run out of toes or skin or ways to hurt his eyes and Foggy will notice and probably be disappointed at that too.  
  
Foggy just says, "Hey, come here, you're not a 'disruption', it's fine. That lady Summer will come over and she sounded pretty confident that she could help you."  
  
Matt smiles inwardly as Foggy pulls Matt into an uncomfortable embrace. Matt hates hugs, or most of how Foggy is affectionate without good reason or earning it. It makes him jumpy to have such a debt to an owner.  
  


* * *

  
The next morning Foggy is badly wishing he'd thought to ask for another time. It's too fucking early, the sun's not even out yet, and Foggy's trying to make coffee.  
  
"May I, Foggy?" Matt murmurs, and for a second Foggy's tempted to ask him to never say his name again, because it's so creepy to hear the way Matt says it, like it's some sort of title.  
  
Foggy's so tired he says, "Sure, you know what, sure. I'm going to go to bed. You do whatever."  
  


* * *

  
Matt's nervous as Foggy leaves to sleep; once he flops on his bed, however, he actually falls asleep.  
  
Then Matt hears Summer walking, her feet without shoes, but it's her alright, the smell is distinct.  
  
Matt opens the door before she can knock or ring the bell, because it's common sense to let an owner sleep, always.  
  
Without speaking, once she's inside and Matt's closed and locked the door, she walks to the living room and plucks two cushions off the couch onto the floor. Matt pours and prepares her coffee and his; he remembers how she takes it.  
  
He puts it down on the table, head bowed on reflex, and then sinks down onto his knees on the cushion and sags in relief. Foggy hasn't let him kneel in fucking months, hasn't given him that comfort.  
  
They have the conversation in whispers they can both easily hear.  
  


* * *

  
"So what's the problem with the owner?"  
  
"He's--awful."  
  
"Sadist?"  
  
"No, he--he seems to want a free person instead of me, but still a slave, but instead I have to pretend to be this parody of a free person and still never get anything for it. He doesn't want me and thinks if he got rid of me--and he'd have to sell me back to his biological mother, who he hates--he'd be a bad person. But he's impossible to please. I've never had an owner make me so...edgy before."  
  
"Well, a nervous breakdown is healthy sometimes. But it sounds to me--you were given as a surprise gift? To a broke freshman law student?"  
  
"Yes," Matt whispers back, grateful that she understands the sheer weirdness of it. Matt was sold for seven million dollars and then _given_ like a pair of cheap socks.  
  
"Well. What does 'Foggy' dislike?"  
  
"Me kneeling, not using his name, public nudity, any suggestion of sex with me, any attempt for me to be useful. Slavery in general, I think."  
  
"Hrm. Well. Remember what little I told you about abolitionists?"  
  
"Yes. Mostly how to efficiently get away from one and back to an owner."  
  
"Yes, and that was all, because honestly, abolitionists are irrelevant most of the time, and the other times they're dangerous. But perhaps--hrm. Have you had an owner yet that wants to 'save' you from slavery?"  
  
Matt tries to think of one, and the closest he gets is how Mistress Sharon's daughter Annalind used to shout at her mother if she used Matt in front of her--even for coffee-making, not even sex--and refused to eat or drink anything made by Matt. He'd been mildly insulted until he realized she was an abolitionist based on a school paper her mother had ranted about as she scraped her fingernails into cuts on Matt's back. Then he'd been wary.  
  
"No, not yet."  
  
"Well. They're difficult, because you have to create the facade of being in love with them, and not let yourself be convinced. It's like those owners who have fetishes for mock-marrying their slaves--you have to cater to delusions."  
  
Matt swallows. "How?"  
  
"Well, first of all, if you'd like, convince him how much happier you are kneeling or on a floor--make up some sob story about how I hit you or some such nonsense for standing."  
  
Matt blinked to himself. Summer hadn't hit him for standing; she'd kneeled and he'd been lower than her, always, and so he'd kneeled too. It had been comforting, after a while. It meant he was on track for being good.  
  
"But use his name. And take some risks, some initiative--maybe give him a backrub if you're bold, or ask for specific foods. See if that makes him think he's cured you of being a slave," and that's a definite eyeroll in her tone now. Matt finds it just as absurd--as if there was anything wrong with being a slave.  
  
"And perhaps see," Summer added, "If he's got some, ah, deviant sexual preferences."  
  
Matt tilted his head. "As in, likes to be dominated. Even by you," she added at his face.  
  
"Free people have that preference?"  
  
"Not openly, hence deviant. But this Foggy might, if he dislikes your usual talents at sex."  
  
Matt nods, absorbing this. He can cater to fetishes just fine.  
  
"So what you're going to do is play into that fantasy. Become 'saved', 'empowered', 'liberated'. What they want is a slave who is a shivering limp thing that they can comfort and build up and control in total. They want you to owe them everything, so pretend Foggy does. See if submissiveness makes him more or less happy and proceed accordingly. It's somewhat easier to mimic a free-person-in-all-but-collar that way. And don't forget to use your newfound freedom to suck his cock. The first thing I ever told you about a male owner was that they all become so much easier to get along with when you suck their cock at least once a day. Now tell me more about Rosalind Sharpe and how you and Foggy met."  
  
"Well, she bought me at auction, clearly drunk," he begins.  
  


* * *

  
Foggy yawns as he gets up at eight a.m. and then jumps when he realizes that that lady slave Summer was supposed to come over two hours earlier, and oh shit, what if he'd locked her out totally?  
  
Except once he gets into the living room, he looks and sees a beautiful, short woman wearing a braided metal collar who was talking to Matt. She's wearing some sort of black scrunchy dress and they're both kneeling on the floor on cushions off the couch, which makes Foggy feel faintly sick.  
  
But then she gracefully stands, and leans down to pet Matt's hair, turns to face Foggy, smiles gently, and leaves with a coat folded over her arm.  
  
"That was Summer?" he asks Matt after she's gone.  
  
"Yes, Foggy," Matt says, voice somehow lighter and happier. "She--I needed some things explained to me, and she did."  
  
"So you're better now?"  
  
Matt smiles dreamily. "Much better."  
  
"So could you get up off the floor?"  
  
Matt's smiles goes away, and he looks down and hunches into himself a little. "I--I haven't told you this before, and she said I should, but, um, I l-like kneeling. On a cushion. It's--they hit us, when they're training slaves, or shock us, anytime we're standing without direct orders. And so kneeling just. Um. Makes me feel safer."  
  
Foggy's startled. He's never thought about it that way, and Matt had never indicated that he was ever unhappy before. But if it makes Matt feel safe, Foggy will get used to him kneeling. Maybe he'll get him some super-plush cushion or something.  
  


* * *

  
Matt listens to Foggy get himself coffee with burning delight.  
  
That stuttering, sad little ploy _worked_. Things are looking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from "The Cossacks" by Linda Pastan, which can be read here: http://sad-jew-with-cake.tumblr.com/post/136886790671/the-cossacks-for-jews-the-cossacks-are-always
> 
> So, on the noncon between Matt and Foggy:
> 
> Matt is determined to have sex with Foggy because he believes that as a slave the only way to secure his position and save himself from death or worse is to have sex with him. In order to do this, he pretends to have genuine autonomous sexual desires for Foggy, and gives a performance of enthusiastic consent. He hates having sex, especially the way Foggy has sex with him, and spends the encounters full of resentment and fear.
> 
> Foggy is under the impression, during all sexual encounters, that Matt is being entirely honest when he says he wants sex with Foggy, and lets his own doubts be silenced. He further rationalizes that since the sex is kinky and involved Matt topping him, it cannot be actually nonconsensual/a performance, mostly because Foggy does not understand the degree to which sex slaves like Matt are brainwashed and taught to do *whatever* their owner wants sexually. 
> 
> Eventually, Matt admits that he hates sex with Foggy, and Foggy is shocked and horrified by his actions. No further sexual contact between them occurs.


	2. my frenulum between his forefinger and his thumb

Matt's amazed with his luck as the week goes on.  
  
He's never had an owner dislike owning him before. It still smarts worse than a switch, too, because Matt's gone to such incredible lengths to become seriously expensive, well-trained, and flexible in what roles he can perform.  
  
And he's never had an owner who only seemed happy when Matt was happy with the owner's version of him and unhappy with what Matt was actually happy with. Well--that's not quite--no, he's had owners before who wanted him to enjoy sex and being owned by them, but they always wanted him to suffer when punished. It's as if Foggy thinks Matt _being a slave_ was a punishment and being this nervous, twitchy parody of a free person was a reward.  
  
Matt also finds out that since Foggy so dislikes Matt being distressed, Matt can slip back into more proper slave protocol to control a bad situation. Two days ago, when Foggy had suggested that perhaps Matt didn't have to wear a collar anymore, Matt had abruptly gone to the appropriate kneeling position (arms out in front of your head, face flat on the floor, knees down, neck outstretched) and made himself stammer out some frantical-sounding hysterics and apologies and _Please keep me, sir, please Master Foggy I don't want to go back to her,_ and the words tasted sour but it wasn't worse than anything he'd said for an owner before.  
  
And Foggy had not only not punished him, he'd actually then went online and bought Matt a soft leather collar lined with rabbit fur (instead of the tasteful faux-leather Rosalind Sharpe had been keeping Matt in) and paid for fast delivery.  
  
The whole time, Foggy had pulled Matt into a sort of cuddling position on the bed next to him, saying soothingly _I'm not going to sell you, Matt, jesus, I'm not an asshole just because my mother is, and if a collar is what will actually make you feel safe I'll just get you one with the money she gave me,_ and Matt had hardly believed it until it came the next day and Foggy had gently closed it around his throat, so lax Matt had had to subtly tighten it.  
  
Now Matt's lying on the couch, pretending to have fallen asleep watching _Firefly_ with Foggy. It's annoying--Matt would never fall asleep without orders or drugs, how utterly offensive--but it's a good way to gather information without the owner knowing what you're doing.  
  
So Matt's listening to Foggy in his bedroom. Foggy's on his computer, typing, his heartbeat fast. Matt breathes through his nose, and there it is--the distinct smell of arousal. Matt smiles to himself as Foggy shifts out of his pants, and with a fluttering heartbeat that reads as both anxious and aroused, finds something online to masturbate to.  
  
Matt pushes away his anger that his owner prefers his hand to Matt, and focuses to try to see if there's any clues to what Foggy's masturbating _to_.  
  
Foggy's biting his lip, sweating, and whispers to himself, _Oh ffuck yes, please fuck me, oh god,_ and Matt registers surprise as he strains harder to listen.  
  
_Matt_ , Foggy whispers, and it's difficult to not get up and go serve him, _Matt, fuck, fuck me hard, Matt please--_ and then he comes. Matt doesn't do anything but listen as Foggy hastily cleans himself up, and over the hum of the shower Matt hears _What the fuck is wrong with you Foggy, he's a fucking slave, he can't consent,_.  
  
Matt frowns and diverts his anger at that to his heart. What does it matter if he consents or not? He's not some baby slave or broken, secluded pet that's only taken outside wearing veils, crying and fragile at everything. Matt is more than capable of giving his owner the best sex of his life. Thinking that he needs to consent or he'll what--die? Crumple like paper?--is beyond infuriating. It's disgusting.  
  


* * *

  
Foggy's just happy things are getting better.  
  
Matt's expressing things that he actually likes instead of just robotically offering up things he can do. Today Matt even hesitantly asked Foggy if he could maybe organize the kitchen so he could know where things were when he cooked, and when Foggy gently clarified that he didn't have to, Matt actually told him that he liked cooking.  
  
Now Matt's being more of a person, Foggy feels less and less like an asshole or walking on eggshells. He thinks maybe this won't be so bad, after all.  
  
It's when Foggy gets back from the store--he's still helping his parents out until the semester actually starts in a week--and Matt's humming something to himself, spatula wielded as he makes some sort of vegetable stir-fry and adds marinated beef, making Foggy's mouth water that Foggy can't help but collapse against the doorway, smiling wide and sweet, because Matt's finally getting _happy_.  
  


* * *

  
Matt feels somewhat better now that he knows where the tightrope is under his feet. He still might fall, and the net might not hold, but it's easier to balance like this.  
  
He's still tense at the thought of taking sexual initiative and _dominating Foggy_. He'd gotten onto Foggy's computer when he was gone again--it wasn't easy, the laptop was clearly designed for sighted people, but he managed alright because owners never locked their computers against their slaves because how would a slave even work up the nerve to hack in?--and had the speech-to-text leftover app read the porn Foggy had hid under bookmarks.  
  
It's all rather shockingly weird stuff--slaves turning on their masters, pressing them down by the neck, taking control. Foggy had clearly imagined himself in the submissive position--he'd had an app that replaced the names of the masters-turned-victims with 'Foggy' or even 'Franklin' and the names of the dominating slaves (and what a weird oxymoron _that_ was) replaced with 'Matt'.  
  
But Matt's catered to strange fetishes before. One owner had liked to feed Matt rich meat and chocolate cakes and all sorts of fattening foods and rub his stomach as it cramped. She had been cooing the whole time as she told him how she was going to fatten him up. Another had liked to hogtie Matt, place foods around and in him, spread marinating sauce on him, and pretend he was going to cook Matt and eat him.  
  
Matt thought wryly perhaps they ought to have gotten together and had some sort of Hansel and Gretel scene, but alas, those were previous owners and unlikely to be future ones.  
  
Matt swallows his fear, hiding it from Foggy with his back turned (sighted people are basically bad at most subtle body language that didn't involve faces, or at least sighted free people), and served them both basic stir-fry with white rice. Foggy seemed to be very happy with it, and Matt ate slowly and with as much grace as he could, stomach churning with terror.  
  
Most owners didn't mind _some_ sexual initiative, preferring slaves who they thought wanted them, and certainly Matt had experience with that. Foggy wasn't physically unattractive, but he was an owner, and so Matt would never let himself think that Foggy was ever ugly, that would be inappropriate.  
  
Matt made himself think of Foggy as if he were, perhaps, another slave in this household, and one with a fetish for being dominated. Certainly slaves like that existed. Foggy would be--cute, definitely as a slave, and not exactly unattractive, but it was difficult to find other slaves attractive at this point, since all his sexual desires were just tools for owners.  
  
But it helped to think of it that way. Matt could certainly fight and win against another slave, and if he'd been ordered to or figured out that an owner wanted him to, he could dominate another one sexually. A month or so before Matt killed him, Master Robert had had slaves start performing sex on one another, the overseers appointed to pet them and act as an owner would to reward a slave who'd done well sexually.  
  
Granted, Matt had never been an overseer. Officially. Unofficially, he'd directed enough workflow of other slaves to qualify, but that had been because Matt could either be in charge or be dominated by both other, less-expensive slaves _and_ his owner, and Matt flatly refused to be ordered around by anyone who wasn't free or otherwise worth more than him.  
  
So when Foggy was grinning after the dinner, and went into his bedroom, Matt places the plates in the sink and walked after Foggy, creeping quieter, ready to surprise him. Hopefully this would all go well; Matt had had enough of being whipped to last a lifetime.  
  
But even if it didn't, even if Foggy left Matt in a cage with plugs and headphones and ignored him for a week, it would still be better than the awful hesitating waiting game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from "Angels and Moths" by Olena Kalytiak Davis, which can be read here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/54195496313/angels-and-moths-by-olena-kalytiak-davis


	3. when your right to say no is entirely hypothetical

Matt pushes down his thready anticipation, and follows Foggy into the bedroom, coming behind him. He resists the throbbing weakness in his legs, the insistent reflex of _on your knees, where it's safe._  
  
Instead Matt puts Foggy in a very mild chokehold.  
  
Foggy immediately flails a little but Matt says, in one of his best sultry voices (the kind he's practiced and refined so well, he could seduce a dead elephant with), "I know you want it like this too," and Foggy goes still.  
  
Then Foggy ( _your **owner** what are you **doing** Matt's brain shrieks_ ) says, sounding very, very flushed and aroused, "Uh, Matt, are you trying to tell me--"  
  
Matt smiles because it's working, and says while taking the chance and grinding his hips against Foggy's ass, "Yes, I want to do things to you in your stories, I want to make you come so hard you forget your own name, I want to fuck you until you can't walk," and that's apparently the right tactic because he can hear Foggy's erection coming to full bloom.  
  
Foggy starts panting and writhing against Matt as he murmurs, "I've always wanted to do this to someone," and that's disturbingly not even a lie as he shifts his hold so his forearm is against Foggy's throat and the other comes down to the front of his pants, unzipping.  
  
Foggy tenses up and Matt reacts like he did when Mistress Sharon's pet started to panic during sex, and leans them forward and kisses Foggy's neck, his cheek, in the kind of pretend-loving fashion he practiced for years. Foggy relaxes again against him and Matt traces his hand down to his erection, feeling around and playing with it almost immediately. It's the same motions as any other handjob, honestly, just from a different angle. Owners are more boring than they could ever realize.  
  
"Are you sure, you, oh fuck that feels good, want this?" Foggy gasps out.  
  
Matt suppresses the low feverish hate that brews in his stomach at that. Of course not. He's a slave and wants a good owner, not the kind of man he has to lie while lying about lying to, creating some nightmarish recursion sequence that got Matt punished no matter what. He hates mind games. But it's his owner, and Matt's set himself the goal of leaving every owner happier than when he got to them, so he makes himself not grit his teeth and rocks his hips against Foggy's shapely ass again, saying, "Doesn't it feel like I want this?"  
  
Thankfully, Matt's been able to keep an erection up by force of will since he was fifteen, it's exactly like crying on command, and so Foggy's eyes do something audible and he gasps out, "Oh, fuck, Matt, you're the fucking best," as Matt twists his hand just right and Foggy comes with a little breathless noise.  
  
Well, that's over and done with, and yet Foggy turns around and says to Matt, "Your turn now?"  
  
And Matt suddenly shifts in time, he's back to Mistress Sharon and her bed where she kept her pet and Matt at night, the pet lying there wet and breathing hard, anticipatory, and Mistress Sharon laughing as she twitched with aftershocks and told the pet that it was its turn now too, and Matt kept himself still and calm, hands behind his head, as the pet turned to use him too. He had been proud of how good he had been, and so had Mistress Sharon. He and the pet had gotten along well after that, after he'd proven that he wasn't going to hurt it too.  
  
It's stupid, but when Matt goes back to the correct time, he finds that his owner is apparently giving him a blowjob, which is a sentence he's never in his life thought he would think.  
  
Foggy's bad at it, is his first thought. He has no technique, retains a gag reflex (which you can fake and some owners like, but honestly if you choke them too the throat spasms anyway, a gag reflex is wholly unnecessary for slaves), and if he was another slave, this would be the point that Matt would pull him off and correct him on technique, teach him all the little tricks. Sucking cock is much easier than it seems, once you get all the little details down correctly.  
  
But clearly Foggy wants him to come, so Matt focuses on the compilation of praise every owner's ever given him for how good he is at sex, and does the little trick of artificially tensing every muscle in a specific pattern, and comes joylessly.  
  
Then Matt's uncertain of what to do. Foggy gets up, staggering a little, with semen on the corners of his mouth--how strange and rude, Matt knows slaves should swallow or wear or snowball it, but don't free people also consider swallowing normal?--and the next thing he knows Matt's being hugged again.  
  
"Dude," Foggy says after a second, still catching his breath. He's not in good shape. "That was--how did you even know? That was perfect."  
  
It's a question, so Matt still has to answer, and he says as cheerfully as he can make it, "I've always had a way with reading people," and realizing that Foggy wants the illusion of trust from Matt, as if everything else isn't enough, "And I know that with you, I could take the risk," _because you're weak,_ he doesn't say.  
  
Then Foggy's kissing him and Matt kisses back the slave way, not the way free people do, on reflex. Thank god for all the training, or Foggy might discover something that would break his delusions and Matt would be the one punished.  
  
"I guess I should shower, I'm all sticky," Foggy says, laughing, and Matt pushes down the urge to offer to lick it off--that's not a dominating gesture at all--and instead says, "I don't mind," and kisses him again. It's revolting.  
  
Foggy goes off to shower, and Matt sinks down to the hardwood floor and cherishes the pain in his patellas at it. He feels shaky and terrified all over now, the way he always is when he's taken such a huge risk. His body panics after the crisis.  
  
Once, in a book Matt had listened to, there had been a character who had been cut with a knife. But she didn't bleed until she went home, got her supplies, sat down, and told the wound, _I'm ready now._  
  
Matt did this now, too, feeling the adrenaline fade away, thinking to himself, _I'm ready now._  
  
He dug his fingers into his dick harshly in the shower when he had his turn after Foggy. Not enough to bleed, not quite, but he was ready for it, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from a tumblr post here: http://realsocialskills.org/post/66194884001/when-your-right-to-say-no-is-entirely-hypothetical


	4. I don’t enjoy it here, squatting on this island, looking picturesque and mythical

Three things stick in Foggy's head through the shower, as he falls asleep, and all next morning as he works in the shop.  
  
One, that had been fucking incredible. It had been, like, tailored to his fantasies, the kinds he'd been having since he was just starting puberty and staring at the beautiful slaves in Manhattan.  
  
Two, Matt seemed...cooler somehow, but also less anxious. He didn't seem to be as uncertain, and didn't talk to Foggy as much.  
  
Three, the sentence "I want to do things to you in your stories". Everything else had been pretty straightforward, including Matt's dick. God, Matt's dick was so pretty, and big enough that Foggy had almost choked on it, jesus christ almighty.  
  
But that line didn't make sense to Foggy, somehow. Whose stories did Matt mean? Had his previous--owners was way too nice of a word, torturers sounded more truthful--had him read the kind of stuff Foggy jerked off to? It didn't seem to make any sense.  
  
The thought flickered into his mind that maybe Matt had read things on Foggy's computer, the stories, but he dismissed that as completely ridiculous and paranoid. For one thing, Matt was blind and if there was good software for computers for blind people--and there was, but not on Foggy's laptop--but even so, for another thing, Matt was so absurdly obedient and docile, like some kind of Crufts dog. Matt had calmly stripped off his clothes in a _diner_ and knelt at Foggy's feet and sucked on his fingers when they first met. He hadn't even drunk any water except from the faucet for a day once because Foggy had been feeling under the weather and forgotten to tell Matt to get a glass of water. Matt couldn't possibly have gone onto Foggy's computer without permission. It was insane.  
  
That left the possibility that Foggy had maybe read one of his stories when Matt was sleeping or--and Foggy flushed bright red at this--had some kind of wet dream and Matt overheard him saying shit about how he wanted to be topped, and combined with stories his torturers had had him read, had figured it out.  
  
Foggy felt uncomfortably like Matt was catering to him, somehow, with the sex, but at the same time, it felt bizarre. Matt had gotten a blowjob, had basically initiated the whole thing, and had been in charge, hadn't he? That wasn't how slaves worked. If Matt had thought Foggy wanted sex from him, he would have gone onto his knees (like he did all the time, jesus god) and tried to blow Foggy instead.  
  
Foggy shook his head, got back to his apartment, and found Matt in the kitchen again, cleaning the stove. Matt was a gigantic neat-freak, Foggy had found out almost right away. He couldn't stand messes at all, of any sort, and cleaned like a maniac.  
  
There was a plate out, too, of what looked like--was that _eggs Benedict_? Holy fuck, it was delicious, and Foggy put his stuff down and turned and told Matt, "God, that smells good!"  
  
Foggy went and sat down as a glass of orange juice appeared next to the plate, sweating faintly in the august heat. Matt was fast as fuck.  
  
Foggy was halfway through the (delicious and with an unbroken sauce, too, how the fuck even) eggs Benedict when he realized Matt wasn't also eating.  
  
"Did you already eat?"  
  
Matt's back tensed, and he said, slowly, "No, Foggy."  
  
Foggy frowned to himself. "Well, if you're hungry, eat, you can have the rest." But Matt's shoulders corded even tighter and unhappier, and Foggy hastily rephrased that. "You don't have to eat, but if you're hungry you can."  
  
There was a pause and Matt said, "I'm not hungry, thank you, Foggy."  
  
Foggy ignored the part of him that said that was a lie--how and why would Matt ever lie, honestly, and finished eating uneasily.  
  
\--  
  
Matt was glad that line had worked, but felt prickles of anxiety on his spine as Foggy said they had to go shopping.  
  
"You need more, like, semi-formal clothes," Foggy explained, "And school stuff, and a laptop, and good software too, because I won't let some assholes let you get behind."  
  
Matt arched an eyebrow inwardly--he was familiar with software designed to accommodate blindness, but that was really made for disabled people, not defective slaves. But if Foggy said he was to use it--and, implicitly, not get behind on schoolwork, which probably meant doing as well as he could, though probably not better than Foggy--then he would use it. No different than a dildo or a new chef's knife.  
  
They went shopping, Matt faintly uncomfortable in his jeans, and as they went, Matt holding onto Foggy's arm (which reminded him of nothing except Summer guiding him the same way, murmuring in his ear all the details he missed due to being blind--owners liked to tell Matt where to go by his senses alone or by specific steps, or else guide him via leash, hand hooked under collar, or one arm), they passed a woman on the street. Matt heard the fast heartbeat of a cat or small dog, and smiled.  
  
"You like cats, then?" Foggy asked. Matt ducked his head--flirting was fun and put owners at ease, broke tension--and nodded. "Cats are lovely animals," he said, because it was true and also sounded sophisticated. Certainly moreso than 'their fur is so soft and they are small and warm and will defend themselves with claws and teeth'.  
  
Master Robert had had cats. Never more than about six at a time, and he'd only have them for some months and then give them back to the shelters, which was extremely similar to his attitude on slaves, apart from the fact that most of his slaves were summarily executed or mysteriously died on 'accidents'.  
  
That, and he never hit the cats. Once, he tried to kick them, and the cats had evaded him disdainfully.  
  
When they got to the computer store, Matt forgot himself for a moment, and slipped into the mode he'd gotten used to.  
  
The salesperson came over almost immediately, and after Foggy said "We're looking for a laptop, a PC, with software for blind people," the sales assistant said suspiciously, "Who for?" Matt jumped in and said, in that soft tone that itched at free-but-subordinate-people, "My owner's sister's birthday is coming up, and her old laptop's broken down. If you could help us find her the best of the best, it would be so lovely, thank you sir," and smiles in that half-shy, half-ruthless way, with teeth bared.  
  
Foggy goes alarmingly silent as they find and then buy the laptop and software, and Matt thinks he's far overstepped, so when they're walking back outside and Foggy pulls him into the alley, Matt consciously braces himself for anything--slaps? Kicks? Maybe Foggy will rip some hair out?  
  
But then all Foggy does is ask him quietly, "What the _hell_ was that?"  
  
Matt sinks down low, head hung, and murmurs, "I'm sorry for overstepping, of course I shouldn't speak to strangers without your permission," and waits.  
  
"Jesus, that's not what I _meant_ , I just want to know why you did that," Foggy snaps. Matt folds himself down lower, almost tasting the dog urine and treads of rubber-soled shoes on the ground.  
  
"I apologize. I'm more used to--my previous owners were rarely inclined to speak to salespeople themselves, and it was a duty of mine to gather their items on their behalf," he says, and then, "I'm sorry for incorrectly understanding you, Foggy, please punish me how you see fit."  
  
Foggy runs a hand through his hair and says, angrily but now also pitying--and it makes something curdle in Matt's belly, claws scrape against the inside--says "That makes sense, but Matt, just--warn me, okay? It's super weird to see you do that stuff."  
  
"Of course, Foggy," Matt murmurs. He will ask for permission next time. Foggy's standing close enough that Matt can reach his shoes, so he leans forward, presses two delicate kisses to each cheap shoe, and rolls back to normal kneeling.  
  
After a second of shocked silence, Foggy gets him up, and they finish shopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Margaret Atwood's poem "Siren Song", which can be read here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/90162409578/this-is-the-one-song-everyone-would-like-to


	5. there sure are a lot of dangerous birds around

Foggy stared at the sky.  
  
He wasn't sure what he was doing, or feeling. It was just that he couldn't help but feel vaguely terrified of Matt, and deeply confused by him. Ever since Rosalind had oh-so-graciously given him this person, he hasn't understood Matt at all.  
  
On the one hand, Matt had smoothly lied to the sales associate, and when they were getting clothes he had started to strip right there before Foggy had yelped and hurried them to a changing room.  
  
But on the other hand, Matt had _kissed his shoes,_ and fuck if that wasn't scary. Foggy was not equipped to be responsible for the kind of person who was so damaged they thought kissing shoes was some sort of apology or thank-you. He hadn't even let himself get a rabbit or a cat or dog as a child, because he was terrified of not feeding it one day and it dying. Matt was much, much more of a---Foggy didn't want to say _burden_ , but it was the only word that came to mind--than an animal. Animals, at least, would yelp or whine or beg for food. Foggy had the distinct feeling that Matt would gracefully never mention it if Foggy forgot to feed him, and probably think it was some punishment or Foggy wanting him to not get overweight or something. Fuck.  
  
Foggy made himself take a deep breath and sip his glass of juice. He'd gotten four different types of juice--he'd asked Matt, before, what he liked to drink, and Matt had been only owned by Foggy for a week and had said that he liked anything his owner saw fit to give him. Foggy hadn't known how to react to that statement at _all_ , and since then had been buying two extra types of juice whenever he went grocery shopping or ordered them online. Foggy had meant to try them out, see which ones Matt drank, but since Matt apparently never touched the juice at all unless Foggy told him to, it wasn't working.  
  
Matt drank water, now, because after that horrible day when he'd drank nothing at all because Foggy had been feeling sick and depressed and overwhelmingly lonely and had forgotten that he needed to tell Matt things like that, he'd panicked and ordered Matt to not let himself die of dehydration, to drink water every day at every meal.  
  
And now Matt was doing something with the things they'd gotten--Foggy didn't actually know what--and Foggy was staring at the sky.  
  
Matt was like some sort of horrifyingly awful car crash, and Foggy felt like he was running around, frantically trying to find the jaws of life, except Matt was starting at him in the shredded metal, saying _I'm not injured, what are you talking about?_  
  
He'd known that being in law school was going to be difficult. College hadn't been as happy or easy as Foggy had wanted (dreamed) it would be; he'd gotten his English Literature and Language degree with a 3.87, and every break he'd had to struggle not to cry because it was so much lonelier and colder and he had to work harder than he thought he would have to.  
  
And being in law school, he knew, would be hard. The coursework would probably be harder than college, where he had bullshitted his way through more than a few classes, and on some level he suspected his parents thought he was, consciously or unconsciously, betraying them in favor of Rosalind. He wasn't--he wanted to become a lawyer to _help_ people, not like his mother--but still. That and getting Matt meant that he was worried, too, that he was becoming his mother.  
  
Foggy stared at the sky, and heard a few small clinks behind him, and then there's a glass pressed on the counter next to his hand.  
  
"Huh?" he asked, and looked down to see what appeared to be something white and creamy?  
  
"It's a white Russian," Matt explained in that strangely soothing tone. "You seemed like you needed a drink."  
  
Foggy blinked--how much was he moping, if it was obvious to a blind guy?--but swirled and sipped it. It tasted like icecream, somehow, sweet and delicious and somehow vanilla and chocolate. It was cold and coated his throat as it went down.  
  
"I'm glad you like it," Matt said, almost awkwardly. Matt never seemed to actually feel awkward, unlike Foggy. He felt jealous of Matt for that, and then winced at himself and took another drink.  
  


* * *

  
  
Matt was glad the alcohol ploy had worked. Plying owners with drinks often helped them spill their guts. Hopefully it would make Foggy admit what he wanted.  
  
Matt felt like a violin string, tight and thin and high-pitched. He seemed to make Foggy happy and then suddenly unhappy by turns, and it wasn't consistent at all. Foggy had calmed down about Matt kneeling at home, thank goodness, but he still hadn't actually established what he _wanted_. Matt ran through the few long-standing orders--drink a reasonable amount of water every day, with meals, eat at least two meals a day--but still, it wasn't enough. He couldn't pour himself and make a wax sculpture without a mold.  
  
Foggy drank, the glass clinking against his teeth. Matt stood still, breathing out slowly and silently, forcing himself to stay upright. If he was to get anything from Foggy, he needed to have nothing else Foggy could focus on, not his kneeling or his defectiveness or anything else.  
  
Matt focused and focused, until all his hearing was centered on Foggy, the chorus of his organs.  
  
So he almost startled when Foggy said, sounding mournful, "I know law school was going to be hard, but Matt, I'm just scared."  
  
Of what? Matt almost asked, but instead made a soft encouraging noise to show he was listening.  
  
"You'll do well," he heard himself say reassuringly. "I know you will."  
  
"How?"  
  
"I've met some very stupid people," Matt said. It was acceptable, appropriate even, to discuss shortcomings of free people if his owner wanted him to. "Once, there was this son of an owner who was _very_ stupid," he began, and it was soothing to tell this story because he'd told it a million times before and everyone always laughed so hard they cried at the end. "And at a party, the son was very, very drunk on cheap beer, and was angry that he was failing his Exercise Science major when I had gotten a 4.0 for my Bachelor's," Matt continued.  
  
"So he came over and had me strip off and bend over a table, and started to have sex with me. Except, of course, very drunk people often can't maintain erections, but he decided it was my fault, of course, because I wasn't clenching tight enough, or something," Matt kept the bitterness out of his tone. He knew better than that. The son really could have just _asked_ and Matt would've milked his cock. He took pride in his work.  
  
"So he yelled for one of his friends to get him the cattle prod," and this was where usually a slave started to giggle, because they knew what was coming, "And shoved it against my hip.  
  
"Except he was still inside me at the time."  
  
No laughter. Matt nervously continued, "And because of the convulsions from the cattle prod, the son had to be hauled out of me, and taken to the E.R."  
  
The son had also involuntarily pissed inside Matt, but he didn't care about that. He'd laughed the entire time he cleaned himself out, and his owner had actually found it funny enough to not even punish Matt. Instead she came back from the E.R. still snickering, and gave him the leftover batch of some sugar cookies the house-slave had made.  
  
Foggy didn't laugh. Instead his voice came, shocked and angry, "I can't believe any of that shit happened."  
  
Matt's heart froze and he felt the familiar swooping rush of adrenaline--he wasn't lying, it wasn't fair, please don't punish me for lying when I _wasn't_ \--but then all Foggy did was relax against the counter and go silent and unhappy.  
  
Matt knelt slowly, the gap between him and Foggy so infinitely large, his cries didn't echo back to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Margaret Atwood's "Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing", which can be read here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/90247128667/the-world-is-full-of-women-whod-tell-me-i-should


	6. we do not want to do the work of helping you to believe in your humanity

Matt forced himself to breathe deeply and quietly as he quickly diverted the conversation back to where he wanted it. "The point is that I've known many stupid people, Foggy, and you're not one of them. I'm sure you'll do well." Owners loved to hear that sort of thing, even if it was completely false.  
  
Foggy was facing him, now, Matt could tell by his breaths, and said quietly and sadly, "I don't want--I'm sorry that you're like this," Foggy said and one of his arms moved. "But I can't see a way to get you out of it, so let's make the best of it, you know? Let's both be awesome lawyers together."  
  
Something about the word _lawyer_ twinges in his head, and Matt files it away for later. What did Foggy mean, 'like this'? Did he mean kneeling? Scared? Or even--enslaved?  
  
Well, Matt supposed saying sorry for that was Foggy's right, though it was completely useless. Matt couldn't be sorrowful or sad that he was a slave; it was what he was, and what he always would be. There was no room for existential nonsense. And--the only person who could possibly apologize to Matt for being a slave would be Stick, and Matt never wanted to see Stick, not even if he would admit he was wrong and apologize. Apologies meant nothing, nothing at all, unless they were acted on.  
  
He swallowed the words to explain that, and made himself stand up and get Foggy a Cosmo. Many of Foggy's relatives had given Foggy liquor bottles and drink mixes and made him cocktails on the birthday where Matt's ownership had been transferred to Foggy, and Matt had gotten to figure out who liked what, who couldn't hold their liquor, and who had drinks they didn't like but felt they should like.  
  
He had enjoyed the party more than he thought he would; the shock and embarrassment of the free people was sweet like guava juice. It was beautifully ironic, Matt calm and shameless, listening to the gossip in the diner and the waitresses chatting about his ass to one another, and the free people with hot faces and stutters.  
  
Matt handed the cosmo to Foggy and took the empty glass away, putting it in the sink for later.  
  
Foggy drank the entire thing in three gulps, and Matt blinked to himself. Huh. He hadn't expected that. Foggy must be unhappier than he thought.  
  


* * *

  
  
Foggy ended up having two more drinks before stumbling off to bed, and yelling for Matt to join him.  
  
Matt smiled to himself. Finally, something he could do to make a positive difference.  
  
Only all Foggy apparently wanted was to talk to him and cuddle him; he pulled Matt clumsily on his bed, into his arms, and rested them around Matt like a cage.  
  
"You know what I want from you?" Foggy slurred.  
  
"No," Matt answered into his chest. Foggy's shower gel smelled awful; Matt hated lavendar.  
  
"I want you to be _happy_ ," Foggy said. "Happy an' free and not so fucked up. Kissing my shoes. Bullshit like that. Don't kiss my shoes."  
  
"Yes, Foggy," Matt said with an internal eyeroll. Drunk owners' orders applied ambiguously in the next morning.  
  
Foggy mumbled something else, sounding strangely like "an' rape jokes aren't fuckin' _funny_ , hell is that," but Matt didn't know what he was referring to. Matt hadn't told any jokes about rape. They were gauche and distressing to owners and sexist.  
  
Matt listened to Foggy fall asleep and stayed awake for two hours, trying to reconcile the implicit orders of _be happy_ and _be free_. The latter was impossible, the former only possible for fleeting, unexpected times.  
  
But maybe--maybe Matt could construct a persona, a Matt for Foggy that was happy and (mostly) free, and wear that mask at home.  
  
He started to work on the details of this Matt, and decided to add more as he met more free people and understood what they were like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Andrea Dworkin's essay "I Want a Twenty-Four-Hour Truce During Which There Is No Rape ", which can be read here: http://www.nostatusquo.com/ACLU/dworkin/WarZoneChaptIIIE.html


	7. I know what you’re thinking but it’s not like that, I’m a man, I’m a man, I’m a man. no one could ever hurt me

The mask for Foggy that Matt was weaving had, so far, been holding up. Any persona had to be a mixture of things that were true about you (so people mistook it for you) and things that were false (so you didn't mistake it for you).  
  
The Matt Foggy wanted laughed more often at jokes that free people found funny, as if they were telling them at it; it liked pineapple and mango juice, which Matt found overly sweet; it liked Zoe the best on _Firefly_ , not River Tam; it wore jeans and t-shirts and other not-slave clothes without worrying because it hadn't earned it and didn't belong in them; it enjoyed law school, or would, anyway; it thought the best plotline in _Harry Potter_ was the way Dumbledore became the kind of monster he fought against, rather than the evolution of the three into a perfect fighting unit; it disliked being choked during sex; its favorite food was a mustard and ham and arugula grilled cheese; it liked the kind of deviant sex with Foggy; it wouldn't ask for punishments, because it distressed Foggy; it only liked kneeling because it had been shocked or hit when it hadn't; it preferred orchid and sweet pea scented handsoap to plain; it thought Dostoyevsky was exhausting, rather than gorgeous; it asked for things it wanted more often, without earning them; it was cheerful and bubbly and outgoing and likable.  
  
Matt would start to slip into it today, so that Foggy didn't notice the seamless transition and instead just noticed Matt's obedience, which he probably wouldn't even classify as obedience because he was that sort of cruel owner who refused to identify Matt's achievements.  
  
Matt thought about all this while Foggy groaned and reached up to rub his face, knocking Matt's head.  
  
Then Foggy went stiff and frozen and Matt had to remind himself to relax, this owner didn't enjoy his distress--or, at least, only enjoyed his distress when Matt was disguising it as pleasure. Not so different than the owners who enjoyed his physical stoicism, but at least they understood that they were wounding him.  
  
\--  
  
Foggy woke up with a horrifying headache and a nasty taste in his mouth, and when he tried to rub his face and turn over, he abruptly realized that he was also holding Matt in his arms.  
  
Oh, fuck, what had he done?  
  
He tried to think of a way to ask Matt _did I rape you while I was drunk_ but given that Matt apparently thought his horrifying story last night was funny rather than nauseating and tragic, Foggy had to take a minute to roll the phrasing around in his head and come up with a good way to ask it.  
  
He arrived on, "Uh, Matt, was there any sex last night?"  
  
Matt shifted a little bit, probably to have less of his weight on Foggy's hipbones. "I'm not sure what you mean, Foggy?"  
  
Foggy bit his lip; did that mean Matt had, like, been ordered to give him another handjob or something and wasn't sure if that qualified as sex? He hoped not, he couldn't live with himself if Matt had been forced into having sex with Foggy.  
  
Foggy took a deep breath, and rephrased it again. "Did either of us do anything sexual, at all, last night?"  
  
"No, Foggy," the answer came smoothly. "You drank two more drinks, stumbled to bed, ordered me to come and lie down on the bed with you, talked some, and fell asleep."  
  
"And what did I _say_?" Foggy says, relieved that he had not become a rapist last night. The idea of taking advantage of Matt made him feel sick.  
  
Matt spoke again, sounding like he was quoting, with an eerily accurate impression of what Foggy knew he sounded like when he was drunk, "Ma-at, come here, cuddle times, yeah come cuddle with me, on the bed, Maaatty. You know what I want from you? I want you to be happy. Happy an' free and not so fucked up. Kissing my shoes. Bullshit like that. Don't kiss my shoes."  
  
Foggy blinked, and his mouth asked, "Was that all?"  
  
Matt's body went momentarily not quite as relaxed, not exactly tense, and said, "I think there might have been--you said something along the lines of 'rape jokes aren't funny'? Which is of course true," he said, and Foggy was startled that Matt was giving an actual opinion about something that wasn't trivial. "They're misogynistic and encourage the normalization of rapists."  
  
Foggy arched an eyebrow, because _why had Matt told one,_ then? But the thought occurred to Foggy that maybe Matt didn't classify what happened to him as rape, either from some awful coping mechanism or because he thought rape only happened to people and he wasn't a person. With dread bubbling in his stomach, Foggy made himself ask, "So why did you tell one last night?"  
  
Matt didn't say anything, and Foggy craned his neck and saw a flicker of confusion, and he clarified, "That horrible story last night."  
  
Matt mouthed 'oh' and said, calmly, "I didn't realize you disliked the facts of my previous ownership," he said. "I won't bring it up again."  
  
Foggy stared at him. Matt had some sort of gift for saying things in the most upsetting way possible.  
  
"I didn't--I'm not upset with that because I want you to be a virgin or something," Foggy said. "I'm upset with it because it's fucking _rape_ and it's not funny that people raped you, jesus christ."  
  
Matt's reply is in that kind of soothing tone, and it's, "Of course, Foggy," which Foggy is starting to think is 'I disagree with you but since I'm your slave I'll agree with everything you say'.  
  
\--  
  
Matt hasn't heard a lie yet this morning. It's irritating how much Foggy believes his own bullshit. But he was surprised that Foggy genuinely didn't want a sexually inexperienced slave; most owners wanted a slave who was both sexually inexperienced or pure and a slave who was excellent at sex. The two things were mutually exclusive, but a lot of things owners wanted were not logically or physically possible.  
  
And Foggy genuinely thinks of sex that Matt's had as _rape_ , which means for the duration of him thinking that, Matt's going to have to remember the bizarre, arbitrary classification. He breathed around a flicker of rage that Foggy had to insult real rape survivors by comparing what had happened to him to what had happened to them. Matt being used wasn't traumatizing or repulsive or morally wrong or violating of basic human rights like rape was.  
  
It wasn't always pleasant, but that didn't make a difference, since Matt's preferences and enjoyment were irrelevant for the moral value of anything. And perhaps Foggy thought it was rape because Matt had not consented, Matt realized, remembering his earlier words, which was even more patently absurd, since that implied other slaves _had_ consented, or been able to, which was so nonsensical it hurt his head to think about. An espresso maker didn't consent to being bought and used and smacked and sometimes thrown away, but that didn't matter because it was an object, and even if free people thought it was stupid to waste a perfectly good one, that still didn't make even throwing it away a tragedy.  
  
_Rape_. What other sorts of bizarre things would Foggy start thinking had happened to Matt, too? Was he going to start spouting about objectification, too?  
  
Matt took a breath and reminded himself that part of being a good slave was agreeing with and keeping track of all the asinine nonsense one's owner thought and said, because part of the job of a slave was to validate an owner in all possible ways. Validation was an important human need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Warsan Shire's "crude conversations with boys who fake laughter often." which can be read here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/130281765961/crude-conversations-with-boys-who-fake-laughter


	8. tight like a doctor’s glove stuffed with vaseline

Matt didn't seem to be particularly happy at this whole line of conversation, so Foggy changed the subject. "Also, uh, my head hurts, can you get off of me so I can shrivel up and die in peace?"

Matt twitched and there was something on his face for a quarter of a second that Foggy wasn't sure how to classify because he'd never quite caught it, but it looked faintly like anger.

But Matt rose delicately and walked soundlessly from the room, and so Foggy flopped back down and winced. God, he had no idea how to interact with Matt at all. This was worse than when his cousin Jacob had come to visit for three weeks and Foggy hadn't known what to say to him--Jacob's mother had kicked him out for some porn she'd found on his computer, and it was right after Foggy had started reading his top!slave porn, and Foggy was so nervy and twitchy that he had actually burst into terrified tears just looking at Jacob sometimes.

Foggy'd tried ignoring Matt as much as he could before Matt's crying incident, which in retrospect probably helped lead to it, but he still didn't know what to actually _do_.

Foggy really needed to find some resources on slave mentality that didn't make him want to start shooting people. He'd tried to find some, but they were all training manuals and were nauseatingly objectifying, like slaves were particularly tricky cars to calibrate correctly or something.

_A new slave is always great, because if they're trained at all, they're a fun blank slate to draw on,_ one of them had said, and under 'experienced slaves' it had gone on to say _Don't let your slave confuse you with previous masters and mistresses! Instead, ensure that they understand **you** are in charge on a gut level and punish them for unwanted comparisons._

Jesus christ, he was going to actually vomit if he kept remembering this stuff.

Foggy got up painfully, went to the bathroom, gagged a little as he recalled the pictures of slaves with semen on their face, smiling and trying to lick it off from where they could reach, to demonstrate why the website thought facials were a good thing to do to other human beings, particularly other human beings who you thought were, like, coffeemakers or something.

Foggy winced as he realized Matt was probably making coffee for him _right now_ too. God, this whole situation was fucked up, and Foggy didn't see a way to salvage it. Matt knew some self-defense or karate or something, and it meant he couldn't be legally freed, ever. That shit was in the Constitution.

Well, the Constitution could go fuck itself. It could be amended. Maybe that would be Foggy's new life goal, get the Constitution amended so all slaves could be freed one day.

And free Matt too? Yeah, that sounded good. Maybe he'd tell Matt for his birthday or Christmas or something.

\--

Matt calmed down as he made coffee, focusing on getting the ratio of creamer to coffee precisely correct.

He hated it when owners complained about pain, unless it was real pain, like they'd given birth. He didn't mind as much with owners he liked--when Mistress Janet had broken her ankle and complained for weeks like her father had died, Matt had just felt vaguely irritated by it, and that was easy to push down.

But Foggy bitching about a hangover--no. Matt felt anger curdling solid in his veins from that. Matt had been whipped and shocked and had skin peeled off in small strips and nail polish remover rubbed in and kept his face obediently relaxed; he'd broken ankles and fingers and toes and his nose and walked on them anyway; he'd bitten halfway through his tongue during the night once, and throughout all of it he'd never complained. The only time he'd gotten good painkillers was as a serious reward by Winter or after his appendicitis, and even then he had never actually asked for them.

What was it about being free that made even free poor people, even free people that had suffered some things, be so fucking fragile? One little bad thing happening to them, and not even a bad thing that downgraded them permanently to be a thing, and they fell apart and cried and lost their minds. It was maddeningly stupid.

Maybe they were made free because they just couldn't cope with being a slave. Matt had known slaves that were broken, too, but unless you bent first everyone broke, so that hardly proved an existential point.

\--

Foggy came out of the shower, got dressed, and decided on a plan for the day. He'd ask Matt if there were any good guides that accurately reflected a slave's mentality, go to the store, read them when he got back, and go from there. He had the feeling that he needed to figure out if the sex Matt had started was good for him too or not, and if not Foggy would make sure it wouldn't happen again.

"Hey, Matt," he said as he came in the kitchen, seeing a cup of coffee exactly how Foggy liked it set out and Matt looking strange and contemplative.

"So I've been thinking," Foggy said. "I don't really understand you as, like, a person, and I want to, so I've been reading stuff about slave psychology. But it's all, like, horribly objectifying crocks of shit with cheery creepy tones, and so I was wondering if you could find any on your new laptop for me?"

It felt awful to actually even ask Matt to do things, because it wasn't like he ever said _no_ to any of them, but this was a necessary evil and Foggy would find a way to make it up to him later.

Matt was still and his face still in that calm mask, but he said softly, "I can do that for you, Foggy," and Foggy made himself thank Matt for the coffee and then leave.

\--

Matt let himself grimace after Foggy had left. He didn't like to be thanked by owners; it didn't make sense. Other slaves, yes, that was kind and it made him appreciate and be nicer to them, but owners had the right to expect and ask for anything that Matt could do for them, and it was part of Matt's job to make them happy in the first place.

Pretending to be a free person was going to be even more emotionally unfulfilling than he had originally anticipated. Matt wriggled further into the mask he had for Foggy, and the mask liked to be thanked, analogized it to actual praise.

Finding a decent slave-owner psychology manual for Foggy that said what Matt would want it to say would be pretty easy, all things considered. The website that he remembered was still up.

 

It wasn't, strictly, a manual on first sight. It was designed to look like an ex-slave had written it as part of entries for therapy. But Matt had been there when it was crafted, and if you had been a slave in the right places, you could spot how it was designed to reassure an owner, soothe their conscience. From here, Matt could convince Foggy of several key points that would help him behave more appropriately.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “Fat” by Conrad Hilberry, which can be read here: https://themythicbody.wordpress.com/2014/08/05/a-poem-to-start-off-with/


	9. they’d like to see through me, but nothing is more opaque than absolute transparency

Matt nodded calmly to himself as he worked.  
  
First, he had gotten onto Foggy's computer, found the URLs of which slave mentality training sites Foggy had read to ensure the one he was thinking of would work. Then he set up his own laptop to delete all browser history every fifteen seconds, because he had never been stupid, and felt very glad that he'd set up the accessibility software yesterday, even though he still felt counterfeit. Then he found the page, and read the newer additions and edits since the last time he'd read it.  
  
When he'd been introduced to the lie, he'd worried it was too big to succeed, but by this point saying flat-out that there was a secret livejournal whose password was passed along from favored slave to favored slave and used to systematically lie to owners by hundreds of slaves to say whatever they wanted to say in the guise of a single ex-slave, who in no way actually existed, would come off as so absurd it wouldn't be believed.  
  
He started off the email to Foggy and stopped, thinking about all the things he knew about lying. There were many ways to lie to someone: misdirect, mislead, say true things in an unconvincing way so they thought they were false, say true things that were so insane no-one believed you, lie so badly nobody believed it was a real attempt at lying and instead mistook it for truth, knit truth and lies so tightly together they didn't have any idea which is which so that when they found a true thing they thought the whole cloth was blue as well, say what they _want_ to be true or what _their worldview predicted_ to be true, say what they secretly thought in the back of their heads was true. Many details could provide a good lie, and clinging harder to a lie ensured it could be believed.  
  
Matt bit his lip irritably, and realized that he was going to have to stick closer to things that Foggy would actually think due to his bizarre delusions when he was nudging Foggy, rather than things he wanted Foggy to think. He would have to plant seeds, and then let them bloom slowly.

So Matt read about how as a slave, 'the woman' had liked to be very mildly, 'non-condescendingly' praised, and given at least some tasks because otherwise she got nervous at feeling useless, and found a link to an entry about some sex she'd had as a slave, clandestinely, with another slave, and how initiating sex with that slave had been one of the highlights of her time. He arched an eyebrow at words like _liberation_ and _scraps of freedom_ and _empowerment_ and _stolen kisses_.  
  
He ignored the familiar irritation of reading from the perspective of an ex-slave who had, in his opinion, been rather bad at being a slave, and his own vague worry as to how Foggy could interpret 'non-condescending praise' (as if condescending praise actually existed from owner to slave, how insulting) and how _much_ deviant sex Foggy would really require from Matt to be satisfied now that he could think Matt wanted it. (Matt still resented that. Foggy really could have just ordered him to enjoy it, and he could have performed that so well, just like he could have milked that idiot owner's son's cock.) You never knew. Some owners' sex drives fluctuated with the weather, and more with other events that you didn't know about and couldn't predict.  
  
Matt set up the email, took a soft breath, drank some water, and moved on to find ways to make sure Foggy didn't take anything too seriously or suspect something was wrong with the disguised manual. He settled on using the idea that mentally ill people were wrong about all things in life, and specifically that the 'woman' had PTSD, which Foggy would probably believe, given that he thought slavery was wrong.  
  
–  
  
Foggy Nelson came back from the store, and when he did, he saw Matt kneeling on the living room floor with a pillow from Matt's bed under each knee, drinking a cup of coffee and listening to something on his computer with the earbuds Foggy had gotten for him, smiling vaguely.  
  
He looked so cute all of a sudden, cute and his version of comfortable and happy, that Foggy felt his dick twitch in his pants and had to hastily stumble to place his bag over it, at which point he remembered that Matt was blind and felt dumb.  
  
Foggy cleared his throat and Matt almost jumped, going still and then his legs did a strange twitching thing that Foggy didn't want to think too hard about. Matt turned his head towards Foggy, pulling the earbuds out, and smiling warmly.  
  
Foggy slung his bag over one of the chairs in the kitchen and broke the silence. “How are you?”  
  
“Good,” Matt said, and Foggy realized that there was a pot of soup on the stove on low, which he hadn't noticed before. He lifted the lid and poured two bowls, which was unusual, Matt usually did that. Maybe he was breaking his weird, servile conditioning? It was a good sign, anyway.  
  
Matt and Foggy ate in total silence, Matt clearly focused on Foggy. It was unnerving how much attention Matt could pay to him with his eyes staring vacantly at a point two inches to his left.  
  
“So, uh,” he said, because hello, awkward, even if the soup was good (some sort of vegetable?). “Did you find something--?”  
  
Matt nodded. “I'll email you the link if you like? I don't have your email.”  
  
Foggy nodded and then flushed as he realized that his impulse was to grab a piece of paper and write it down. Fucking smooth, Nelson. Instead he said, “The school emails are based off of names—mine's f-e-n-0-1-8 and yours is...” Foggy went to his room and looked at the email with the subject _Regarding your slave-student_ and found it, “556682394441. Wow, that's fucking insensitive, that way everyone knows you're a slave.”  
  
Matt visibly twitched at that, so Foggy soothed, “But anyway, yeah, could you email me?”  
  
“Yes, Foggy,” he said, and then added in a much more inflected voice, “And the woman who writes that blog—not a lot of what she said was accurate, because she's got some pretty severe PTSD.”  
  
“What, like you?” Foggy said and immediately slapped himself in the face because what the fuck, you couldn't just say shit like that, and felt so awkward he grabbed his phone and ran out the door, stammering, for a walk.  
  
–  
  
Matt frowned as he read the descriptions of PTSD. He didn't understand why Foggy would possibly think he had it. First of all, Matt was not experiencing a significant level of distress because he was a slave. He was experiencing a significant level of distress because his current owner appeared to be entirely incompetent at owning slaves. They were entirely separate things.  
  
For another thing, PTSD was a disability and therefore applied to people, not slaves. Slaves had defects, people had disabilities. That was just facts. And even if slavery could possibly count as a singular traumatic event (which made no sense, it wasn't discontinuous or anything like that), as long as one was enslaved, one was still in the traumatic event. There never would be any post-trauma for Matt if enslavement was even trauma, which it was not.  
  
So Matt decided to find out more about PTSD, or what Foggy thought it was and therefore how the persona should become, the same way he found out about sexual preferences. He went to stories.  
  
–  
  
As Matt consumed more and more of these stories about characters with PTSD on the fanfiction website, he learned three things.  
  
One, they didn't appear to have a very good idea of how medical care worked. Or lubricant. One could decide not to use lubricant for anal sex, but in Matt's experience it was unpleasantly painful for both slave and owner, so that was right out.  
  
Two, they appeared to think that sex helped cure mental illnesses, which it didn't, though that made sense, because owners thought sex was beautiful and wonderful because it was for _them_ with any half-decent slave, when in reality sex was at best the sort of thing you endured for the praise and hair-petting and malleability of the owner at the end, not for the actual middle, beginning, or orgasm.  
  
Three, they had a common theme of the romantic hero fixing their love's mental illness and bad memories and bringing them back to the self that existed before the horrible event.  
  
Matt frowned. The problem wasn't that he couldn't act out an unrealistic fantasy for Foggy. One of his owners had lent him out to a friend twice a week to try to help her get over her divorce, and the friend had ridden Matt while wearing a Wonder Woman costume, pretending to be her, which was patently absurd, because even Matt had known before he was blind that Wonder Woman was a lesbian.  
  
The problem was that Matt had no idea what the 'pre-slave' self even was. He had memories of times past; he could recall some things, at least, from before Stick enslaved him. Granted, memories with vision were fuzzy and wavering at best, but from what he could tell that was just because he was very young at the time. But he wasn't sure he understood what his pre-slavery self even was.  
  
He tried to think about himself as a child, before he was enslaved, and it felt like thinking about someone else, a fictional character maybe, or someone from a movie you had memorized. Sure, you knew many, many things about them and felt many things, but at the same time, it wasn't _him_. There was a dividing line. They were not the same.  
  
So Matt fashioned another rope around the persona, and made it so that the persona had some symptoms of PTSD as well, and also in some way would be 'saved' by Foggy to become the kind of person Foggy thought Matt was when he was free, which was a level of recursive lies upon lies upon delusions upon acting that made Matt want to hit his head on the countertop until his skull cracked and his brain matter stained the sink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also taken from Margaret Atwood's "Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing".


	10. she hears the caustic ticking of the clock

Matt winced as he and Foggy walked together to the Disability Services office and he stepped wrong, putting pressure on the tiny cut on his toe. He hadn't let himself break one--too risky with an owner who wanted him to stand upright as often as Foggy did--but he had needed to excise some of the fears that came with living with Foggy and other bad owners, and Foggy was never going to notice a tiny cut on the part of the toe that brushed the others, so he'd done it in the shower with a fingernail.  
  
It hurt now, and Matt almost regretted it, but his socks were black--or so Foggy had told him, who knew what the truth was--so any blood wouldn't show. Matt did laundry anyway, it was one of the few tasks Foggy seemed genuinely comfortable letting Matt do, as long as Matt didn't remind him that he was doing it.  
  
Foggy commented on everything and how it all looked. Matt paid as best attention as he could, committing the details to memory, as his brain tried to wander away, thinking about classes. Foggy had said that since Columbia was one of the more liberal universities, slaves could take classes without their owners, as long as it wasn't more than three. And since Matt didn't actually _want_ to learn Punjabi, he was thinking through what to choose instead--either German or Spanish, because he needed to brush up on either--and how to phrase it.  
  
The mask wouldn't be this anxious about it, but the mask was a free person and not Matt, who had to very delicately test the edges of where Foggy stopped being nice to see where he stood. The mask would probably half-smile and grin afterwards.  
  
Maybe--it occurred to Matt that the mask might have sex with Foggy afterwards because it was happy, and Matt would gain some internal calm, or at least get some practice at pretending to be calm during the new sex. He didn't like it, he probably never would, but it was inevitable. Sex happened with owners one way or another, you couldn't avoid it, so you might as well pick the time and date.  
  
They climbed the stairs to the disability services office--and wasn't that utterly hilarious, a disability services office being on the fourth floor--and Foggy paused at the reception desk. Matt resisted the urge to look as annoyed as he felt as the receptionist, without looking up, said "Please sign in, sir."  
  
He breathed out slowly and said, politely, "I can't, ma'am, I'm blind," and kept his body language deferential but not cringing.  
  
Her chair swiveled, and she said, voice suddenly flat instead of the cheery, smiling-through-the-affront robotic tones before, "You're having your _blind slave_ get things from us."  
  
Matt felt himself wanting to sag in relief that she was talking to Foggy, not him. Slaves were not supposed to be spoken to by people who were not their owners. It was always, always a trap.  
  
"Well, yeah," Foggy said, and there was an uncomfortable three-second silence and then the woman pressed a button on a phone and started a conversation. Matt could hear both sides.  
  
"Martie, you up for an unscheduled appointment today, right now-ish?"  
  
"Yeah. Why weren't they registered previously?"  
  
"Probably because they're a code T."  
  
"A code--oh, a slave. Huh, usually they never get their slaves any accomodations."  
  
"I know, but this one seems pretty sincere. You want me to send them both in?"  
  
"Yes, though expect to be seeing the, ah, young student _without_ the collar outside very soon."  
  
Matt felt prickles of alarm go through him at that, but then Foggy was walking towards the woman's--Martie's--office.  
  
\--  
  
Martie seemed offensively nice.  
  
Her office smelled like cotton candy and actual sugarplums, which Matt hadn't smelled in years. There was the faint noise of a rain sounds generator running on her computer, and her fingers clicked against the keys like she had long painted nails. She herself had hints of bubblegum and good, expensive chai on her breath, and earrings that jingled like a pet collar.  
  
She immediately said to Foggy, pleasantly, "Why don't you wait outside," as if it were a suggestion, not an implicit order.  
  
Foggy had blinked--Matt was that attuned to him, vigilance needed to be constant--and said uncertainly to Matt, "Well, if you're sure..."  
  
The mask had smiled for Matt and said, "I'm fine," even though he wasn't, he didn't want to be alone with her, he wasn't sure how to wriggle out of any bear traps without making a scene.  
  
Foggy shifted uneasily, but left, and then Matt stood stiffly as she sat. He was unpleasantly reminded of the overseer at the Brooklyn open market, making all the slaves kneel on the wet concrete for an hour while she took rolecall, marking down who whimpered and who was silent.  
  
Martie seemed to study him, and then said, "Sit down."  
  
He sat.  
  
"So your owner seems like an interesting person," she said.  
  
"He is," he said, because it was complimentary to Foggy, and even if he didn't like him, he wasn't about to pretend that Foggy wasn't at least puzzling.  
  
She was silent and Matt was tense, muscles ready to--what, move backwards? Yes, that sounded like a plan, getting out of there as fast as he could, in sight of his owner. Foggy wouldn't--he didn't think Foggy would be the type to not care if someone else used his slave, there were very few owners who were so apathetic.  
  
A part of him planned out furiously what to do If, thinking about strategies--appeal to possessiveness, volunteer to not take classes here after all, use Foggy's idealism of the law to press charges, were there security cameras in here?  
  
But then Martie spoke again, voice still strangely sweet without being saccharine, saying, "So I'm thinking at least two canes as well as the usual blind student accomodations."  
  
Matt blinked, and he said, totally calm, keeping the waver out of it, "Canes?" Surely she didn't mean that she was going to use two canes on _him_ all of a sudden.  
  
"White canes, for guiding yourself," she said. Matt felt abruptly confused, like he'd picked up an apple and bit into it and found a tomato instead. Why would he be guiding himself around? He had an owner, and beyond that he had his senses. Sure, they weren't perfect, but nobody's were.  
  
Instead she turned away, grabbed two thin canes standing against her desk, and said, "Here, take these," and pressed them into his hands. Matt very carefully did not let his hands touch her fingers--she had a wedding ring, and it increased the sense of danger even more, married owners took out their frustrations on their slaves, married women who were willing to steal from another person were deadly, deadly, deadly, and then she was saying, "I'll send you an email with all the accomodations listed, don't worry!" and standing up and going to push him out the door, but Matt nearly jumped out of his skin and moved faster away.  
  
She handed him a pamphlet in Braille--Matt caught the title as being something like _omestic violence questions and answers_ and was confused as to her play--and opened the door. Matt very quickly tucked the pamphlet into his jean's pocket and left as fast as he could.  
  
\--  
  
Foggy looked at his phone quizzically.  
  
He'd been looking up PTSD symptoms and signs, as well as strategies to manage them, ever since his horribly out-of-line comment to Matt, because as much as he shouldn't have said that, it was kind of true, and he'd just run across the page on Wikipedia about who was likely to get PTSD.  
  
It mentioned that ex-slaves almost invariably had it, and that they were more likely to get a variation that was 'post-traumatic personality disorder' instead, but it also said specifically that since slaves were not persons, they could not be diagnosed with PTSD as long as they were owned, and mentioned that it was a waste of valuable time and resources to try to get slaves diagnosed.  
  
It made him go low and incandescent with fury, because Matt was a _person_ , a fucking person as much as anyone else, but just as he was explaining (not ranting, Foggy's arguments were always cool and logical and well-structured) this to assholes on the forums, Matt stumbled out looking vaguely sick and hurried over to him.  
  
"How was it?"  
  
Matt made a face that looked like a forced smile, and said, "Good, I'm getting accommodations, and she gave me these canes."  
  
Foggy blinked and then grinned. So maybe this wasn't all farcically horrible after all. Things were gonna get better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Sylvia Plath's "Cinderella", which can be read here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/71787883194/the-prince-leans-to-the-girl-in-scarlet-heels


	11. there is a way in which this really is your tragedy

Foggy had surmised five things from the link Matt had sent him.  
  
First of all, that there was something off about the tone. It swung back and forth wildly all over the place, like the person writing it wasn't very sure of what they wanted to say.  
  
Second of all, Foggy should probably find at least some things Matt liked to do and ask him to do them. It would be a struggle, but he'd find it out somehow.  
  
Third of all, Matt probably didn't even realize that he had PTSD. So Foggy would have to be vigilant for signs of getting triggered or having bad episodes.  
  
Fourth of all, Foggy would have to find ways to be nice to Matt without it sounding stupid or condescending. He supposed it made sense--people liked to be complimented or told that they were doing well.  
  
Fifth of all, Foggy didn't have to worry about the sex he and Matt had had, or possibly could have again, because even during enslavement, sometimes people found each other. Maybe he and Matt could have something more than just the slowly blossoming friendship.  
  
Foggy hoped, and started to take note of which things had slavery in them, so he could avoid triggering Matt. _Firefly_ would be safe; the only mention of slaves was in one of the episodes, where Malcolm had refused a job in the past because he wouldn't transport any slaves.  
  
\--  
  
Matt, once he had realized that Martie pitied him, felt mildly guilty for taking accommodations. He did need them, or at least some of them, but at the same time, he couldn't help but think of all the free people with disabilities who could have used them instead.  
  
He had also, in-between starting to read through his textbooks, managed to bring up that he'd rather take Spanish than Punjabi. Foggy had grinned brightly and hugged him again, making it more a punishment than a reward. Then it had occurred to Matt that Foggy might be trying some bizarro-world version of reward conditioning, which was darkly hilarious in a way, since all the things Foggy was starting to give him when he did things that Foggy clearly wanted--hugging, a hard pat on the back, bright smiles he could only sometimes feel from the air currents--were things he didn't like.  
  
Matt resolved to try to leave conspicuous manuals of reward conditioning in Foggy's apartment and/or law school materials. It would be more pleasant than neither explicit punishments nor rewards, though pure negative reinforcement would as well.  
  
He sighed with nostalgia and remembered reward conditioning, a hand feeding him fruits one by one and neatly typing which ones he liked most and least. Having tiny cuts around his fingernails and in-between his toes made, keeping himself still and non-reactive even through the drops of nail polish remover, and then the rewards, strawberries and chicken salad sandwiches inside croissants and cuddling in the nest of pillows and blankets and kneeling pads on soft shag carpet, voices saying _good job doll, you did good, I'm proud of you, yes you're very good, I knew you could do it, I'm so happy to have bought you, I love training you because you're so utterly talented, see how your hard work pays off?_.  
  
Matt swallowed away the homesickness. It wasn't useful or appropriate.  
  
Instead he stumbled across a strange radio show while reading porn. Pornography's relationship to owner's sex wasn't linear, but they weren't disconnected either, and he was trying to find a free .pdf of the new bestselling porn novel, _Fifty Shades of Gray_. It was reportedly about a woman who found joy in temporary enslavement and at the end of the book proved her love by surrendering into real, legal slavery and being bought by her lover.  
  
While he was trying to find it, however, he found instead a very surreal, horror-based radio show. He could tell it was meant to scare free people--beyond the general rhetoric of horror and disturbing elements, its premise was that it was a town where all the residents who were not the Mayor or on the eldritch City Council were slaves, owned by either the Mayor, the town, or a very rich man.  
  
He laughed quietly at one of the articles calling a segment on the show _horrific_ ; the segment was about a talking, evil crow. What bullshit free people were scared of; Matt would've loved to have met a talking crow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also taken from Andrea Dworkin's "I Want A 24-Hour Truce During Which There Is No Rape".


	12. ruin your fucking self before they do

The first day of classes, Foggy was vibrating with excitement and anxiety.  
  
He'd gotten him and Matt Starbucks in huge cups to carry around--Matt had hesitantly asked for a mocha with extra whip--and they were _ready_. They were also early, but that was because Foggy couldn't deal with even the idea of being late in his head.  
  
He couldn't help but grin, heart flip-flopping between _we'll be so good at this, Matt will be so much more calm for sure_ and _oh fuck I'm a fake I'm going to suck at this and have to drop out and die of shame, I don't want to be a butcher, I'm only not a vegetarian because I like ham so much_. But as Matt walked gracefully, hand on his arm, face serene and stride confident, Foggy relaxed too.  
  
So it was an unpleasant surprise when they got to their first class and on the seating chart, Matt had a dorm-mattress-looking kneeling pad next to Foggy's seat instead of a chair at the table.  
  
Foggy froze, uncertain of what to do, but Matt seemed completely unbothered. Foggy half-whispered to him, "Dude, there's no chair for you, what the fuck do we do?"  
  
Matt blinked slowly and answered, voice still not scared, "Is there a kneeling pad, or do they want me on the bare floor?"  
  
Foggy reeled a little but said, "Uh, I mean there's what looks like a bare dorm mattress?"  
  
Matt nodded. "Do I have your permission to sit upright on it?"  
  
"What? Yeah, of course, but--"  
  
"Then I'll be perfectly fine," Matt said softly, and then went tense as a board as he and Foggy realized at the same time that _Matt had interrupted Foggy_. That never happened.  
  
The mix of elation and horror and second-hand embarrassment curdled in Foggy's stomach with his two-shot vanilla latte, however, and he said, "Dude, are you sure we shouldn't...just...take a chair from another seat? Or ask the professor? This seems like some _Mean Girls_ -style humiliation bullshit."  
  
Matt rolled a shoulder and said, "I don't mind. Slaves should be visible and obvious as such. I can't be humiliated by anyone who wishes to mark me as a slave, because I am one."  
  
Foggy blinked at that, because that sounded...determined, and graceful, and like Matt was rising above the kind of low seething contempt everyone might hold for him.  
  
"I guess if they think less of you because of--that--then they're not worth knowing anyway," he said.  
  
Matt's lips twitched upwards, and then he moved to go ahead and sit down. Foggy watched, a little in awe at the way Matt folded his body neatly into a position that would hold his laptop and plug-in braille keyboard just right for him to be able to take notes, and reach his latte as well. He looked utterly dignified, somehow.  
  
Foggy was reminded of the description of the witches in the _Golden Compass_ or one of the other books in the series, he didn't remember which; Matt was ageless, somehow, and incredibly beautiful, and cold and remote, and here he was alien and above everyone else, somehow.  
  
At one point, the narration or a witch-character had said something like _How could you insult a witch? What would it matter if you did?_. Foggy saw that in Matt.  
  
_I can't be humiliated by anyone who wishes to mark me as a slave, because I am one_ seemed to be just another way of saying that. How could you insult Matt? Foggy searched, and he knew insults for free people that had nothing to do with slavery, but for slaves the worst insult the assholes Foggy knew was usually just reminding them of that fact, yanking or pointing out the collar, punishing or humiliating a slave by forcing them to wear nothing else but it, or elaborate tied-up harnesses and rope instead in public.  
  
Foggy got the sudden mental image of Matt in one of those Japanese-style rope harnesses that some really rich CEO had once had a slave wear on TV that Foggy had seen. Matt wouldn't look teary or humiliated or scared. He would probably look...flirty, or charming, or that same confidently serene he looked right then, kneeling on the floor as if nothing could possibly hurt him.  
  
Foggy's breath caught at the mental image, Matt's face so strong and proud in the face of adversity. It almost hurt him how much he loved that strength, wanted Matt to use it on him, vent the angry frustrations of his life on Foggy, hold him down...  
  
Foggy snapped out of it and got himself ready.  
  
\--  
  
Matt smiled and ducked his head as he and Foggy parted ways. Matt had his first German Department class now, _Legal Terminology in German and American Law_ with a Doctor Hana Qasim, and Foggy had walked him to the door.  
  
It had been pleasant to kneel and sit on the cushion rather than in a chair. Better to stretch his legs, and he liked the quiet little noises of shocked arousal some of the students made when they saw him. He liked much, much less the sniggers that some of them let out, but at the same time they barely mattered at all. They weren't his owner or anyone to Foggy at all, and they were unlikely to be his owner in the future, and they weren't a slave of his household. They didn't matter. Nothing about them was of any real importance, unlike Matt.  
  
Matt walked into the room with his cane out, and to his surprise there was no chairs at all, _only_ the cheap, makeshift kneeling pads.  
  
Matt blinked; there couldn't be more than six slave-students at Columbia, and taking non-student slaves to classes would be very difficult for most people to swing. You could do it for interpreter-slaves or slaves provided by some colleges or a student's parents for accommodations, but otherwise the overweening majority of colleges and professors flatly refused, because it was disruptive.  
  
There were fifteen kneeling pads, so Matt found his way to one and sat down.  
  
As the other students filtered in, only two others wore collars and got kneeling pads immediately. He made a note of how they smelled and how one sounded; the other was voiceless. The other students stood around uneasily.  
  
"Hello!" the doctor sounded, voice booming as she strode in. "I see that some of my new crop of students have not yet found their seats!"  
  
"Professor," one said with a voice like a rat, "I don't--um--there's no _seats_ for us, so to speak--"  
  
"You will address me as _Doctor_ , all of you," Dr Qasim said, voice firm, her voice tinged with an accent Matt couldn't quite identify. "I did not almost die many times on my way to school and have to kill my first wife for a chance to further my education to be called the same thing as those Sociology pissants who fancy themselves scholars because they can disguise their pro-slavery bullshit as _statistics_. And I will not have any discrimination in my class. I would have you all in the conference room, sitting on chairs, but the administration has said this is unfair to the students with bare necks, so instead we will all be sitting on those kneeling pads, which I believe are all dorm mattresses."  
  
There was a shocked second where the air went out of the room, and then Dr Qasim added, "And anyone who has any problem with this or any other anti-discrimination policy, or who performs any derogatory or otherwise prejudiced act of terrorism on anyone in this room will be immediately banned from this class and blacklisted through the entire German department. I run the whole thing, and without my classes you cannot graduate with this as a major."  
  
There was an awkward second, but cowed by her force of personality, people began to sit down too. The two other slaves shifted--Matt caught that one was named _Ashley_ and the other was just _you_ at the moment--to sit flanking him.  
  
The owner of the unnamed slave had made a fatal error, however. He had shoved her as he told her to move, and once she had sat down Dr Qasim boomed out, "Mister Hudson, correct?"  
  
The owner sounded like he thought rocks-for-jocks classes were difficult academic necessities. "Uh, yeah, doc?"  
  
"You are not permitted to refer to me by any derisionalical or affectionate shortening of my title," Dr Qasim said crisply, and then, "I do believe I stated that any act of discrimination would result in immediate banning, did I not?"  
  
"Uh, yeah, but what--"  
  
"Was discriminatory? Shoving another student, who I cannot legally help press assault charges against you for. Since _I_ know for a fact and _you_ know for a fact and _I_ know that _you_ know and _you_ know that _I_ know for a fact that you never would have done that to any other student and that you only did that to this student, whose name I cannot recall," and Matt had the sneaking suspicion that this was because the unnamed slave had no use-name registered with the school, unlike him, "Because of a characteristic which is not based on morality, or character, or anything besides legal and citizenship circumstances, you have discriminated against a fellow student in my class _on your first day_ right in front of me. Get your things and leave immediately. You may have time to find another class to fill your slots."  
  
Hudson slowly got his bags, moving so clumsily and confused that Matt's senses told him he had just gotten concussed. No wonder--Dr Qasim had knocked him the entire fuck out. She did not pull any punches, it seemed.  
  
_Like Dad,_ Matt's brain murmured, and Matt dismissed it immediately. He could not afford to think about his dad. He could not.  
  
After Hudson had left, Dr Qasim grinned brightly and said, "Now, let's move on and start going over the syllabus. If any of you have not been able to afford the textbooks and/or have any accommodation requests, I am available in my office on the hours printed on the syllabus, as well as on my website for this class. I also have an automatic forty-eight-hour extension on all assignment, as well as no grade for attendance specifically."  
  
Matt was passed a copy by her--she seemed to be sitting opposite him, legs crissed-crossed. It was disorienting, but somehow lovely, to be at the same level as the other students. God knew he was at their intellectual level.  
  
Matt realized it was in Braille, and felt his chin lift a little as he read it. He was going to have fun with this class.  
  
\--  
  
After class, the unnamed slave came over to Matt, and drummed her fingers on the wall near his head.  
  
He blinked and tilted his head and she drummed them again. Matt realized after a minute of trying to decode the gesture that it was Morse code.  
  
[Owner has class for three hours, go library?]  
  
Matt nodded and then they walked, careful to not touch one another.  
  
He found a little nook in the library next to a window and sat on it comfortably. She sat opposite him--assuming she was a she, and not an it like some owners had their slaves.  
  
He decided against speaking and drummed back, [She or it?]  
  
[It. Fuck women.]  
  
Okay then. Matt drummed out, [Use-name?]  
  
[No. Number. 3519781841181818. Yours?]  
  
[556682394441.]  
  
[From New York. Class M from start.]  
  
Matt tilted his head; even _he_ couldn't remember all the rules of how numbering slaves worked, labyrinth and bizarre and weird as they were. They changed from county to county, from state to state, from month to month, and many states allowed for extra-personalized numbering, to allow for parents enslaving their children to code in names or messages or particularly humiliating monikers.  
  
So this unnamed classmate-slave was smart, possibly as smart as him. Matt made himself shift gears; it was offering a sort of alliance, and they weren't in the same household, their owners didn't know each other, there was no need to compete.  
  
Matt tapped back, [Yes. Do you go by a shorter version of your name?]  
  
[No, but better than cunt.]  
  
Matt nodded before tilting his head, thinking. [18, then?]  
  
[No. Fuck numbers. Slide out of my head.]  
  
[Dyscalculia? I'm blind.]  
  
[Maybe. Owner thinks it's just stupidity.]  
  
[Your owner appears to be a cretin. I'm not surprised.]  
  
[Cretin? Never heard that before.]  
  
Matt smiled a tiny bit to himself. [Used to be Christian, now is moron. But both are bad qualities.]  
  
[...You Jewish?]  
  
[No. The Catholic church is not in the habit of accepting objects as members.]  
  
[Fuck them.]  
  
Matt nodded, then, [If not 18, what?]  
  
[Something with words.]  
  
It occurred to Matt that if it was as smart as him, it might appreciate the joke. [18...Barely Legal?]  
  
It convulsed then in true laughter, a tiny squeaking noise coming from its mouth. Matt realized it had no proper tongue, just a stump.  
  
[Barely Legal,] it tapped back, silently cackling. [For tools like us in law school. That's fucking amazing. Won't get a degree, but that's great.]  
  
Matt smiled and checked the time discreetly on his watch; it told him that he had maybe fifteen minutes before he had to go meet Foggy for lunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Jenny Holzer's "RUIN YOUR FUCKING SELF BEFORE THEY DO", which can be seen here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/107428397238


	13. here’s my wrist. here’s the knife.

[Owner calling?]  
  
[For lunch. Fifteen minutes.]  
  
Barely Legal's fists clenched. [What does he want in exchange for it?]  
  
[Lunch? Probably me liking it,] Matt tapped back, letting a tiny bit of the bitter out.  
  
It seemed surprised, and then annoyed, tapping back, [At least you get lunch.]  
  
[You don't?]  
  
[Not unless I suck my other owner's clit until she screams,] Barely Legal tapped like a machine gun. [And I won't crack. I can fucking starve to death for all I care.]  
  
Matt firmly reminded himself that he wasn't in charge of it, they had no need to be dominant or compete, and shrugged faintly.  
  
Barely Legal seemed to study him. He went still and patient for the inspection. [You a study-aid?]  
  
[Yes. Technically. My owner apparently also wants sex, but in a very strange way.]  
  
It didn't ask for clarification, thankfully, they weren't really close enough yet for that. Instead, [Me too. My owner's dad wants a paralegal in all but actual degree.]  
  
[Economic reasons?]  
  
[No. He is totally a skinflint, but it's because they all keep suing him for sexual harassment. Ruins his marriages.]  
  
Ahh. And slaves couldn't be raped. [May he choke,] Matt offered up. Barely Legal twitched forward and then tenatively brushed her hoodie sleeve against his hand. Not a kiss--he wasn't an owner--and not a knotting of knuckles, because neither had permission for touching. But a thank-you all the same.  
  
Matt smiled. He liked it already.  
  
He still had ten minutes, so he asked, [Where did you get trained?]  
  
[Boston Official Center for Reformation,] it answered. [You?]  
  
[Personal training.]  
  
[Who?]  
  
[Summer,] he informed it, and was prepared to elaborate on who she actually was, but instead it made a nearly-inaudible squeal and doubled over.  
  
[ _The_ Summer!]  
  
[The Summer,] he replied, now proud of himself. If only Foggy could appreciate him this much.  
  
[I saw her once,] Barely Legal manages to tap Morse code dreamily. [At a party my owners snuck into and left me there to keep watch. She was sitting on her owner's lap. That was the first awesome thing.]  
  
Matt grinned, and that tidbit confirmed that Barely Legal understood how much of a status symbol it was to have a slave that was so well-behaved and perfect that they sat in a chair, on their owner's lap, instead of next to it or under it. Having a slave lounge on you, eyes half-lidded, clearly comfortable and thrumming with a grace and power and lithe, ethereal beauty was the image that some rich owners wanted, the part that Matt always had in mind.  
  
[And she was..she was controlling the room from there. She could have been anywhere, wearing or doing anything, and I could tell that she was absolutely in control of the whole situation, playing those drunk rich assholes like a fiddle. I planned to keep fighting and disobeying to the death, and then I saw her, and I wanted to be her. That happened to you too?]  
  
Matt nodded. He hadn't really begun to be optimistic until one day, when he and her had been flanking their owner at a party, walking in to suddenly wet mouths, making a whole ballroom lick their lips and _want_ them that he understood what power he could possess.  
  
Oh, hell, he had to go if he was to be collected and early. He tapped out, [Yes, and I have to go, talk to you on Thursday too?]  
  
It nodded and then they parted ways.  
  
\--  
  
Lunch, as it turned out, was awful.  
  
Not really because of the food--though it was sub-standard fare, honestly--because Matt managed to get instead a chicken caesar salad and a glass of icewater, but because of the people that they sat with.  
  
Foggy pushed him to a chair--Matt felt flushed with humiliation, he was more than obedient enough to sit in a chair if ordered, it felt like a particularly nasty punishment for a moment and made his head spin--and then five or six other people, all classmate's of Foggy, came and sat with him.  
  
Except for one, who, as it turned out, was there to sit with Matt, and was also in his class with Dr Qasim.  
  
That by itself rang alarm bells in Matt's head, but it only got worse. The others only tried to talk to him at the very start, instead directing all other conversation at Foggy, which was fine with Matt. Talking to free people who had an uncertain relationship with his owner was like walking on your hands through a minefield with broken ribs.  
  
But the person--Devyn, and Matt couldn't help but wince internally at the name, it just seemed pretentious--appeared to just want Matt's attention. It was exhausting, and alarming, and by the end of the lunch Matt was nearly frantic, trying to head off the constant talking to him.  
  
After he and Foggy left for the next class, Foggy turned to Matt and said, "Dude, what was up with that? You really didn't seem into him at all."  
  
Matt's mind blanched in panic. Was Devyn trying to fuck him? He couldn't allow that, but he didn't have very many escape routes planned out. He would have to be careful.  
  
The mask instead shrugged. Pulling off the mask for a class and then Barely Legal and having to put it back on felt rather like the thing that owners did sometimes, having you try on an endless series of clothes, only to reject them all.  
  
Foggy seemed to accept it, and said in what Matt realized what an attempt at comforting is, "Don't worry, girls also go for the whole wounded handsome duck thing."  
  
_What_? Did Foggy want him to attract girls for Foggy? Had Foggy wanted Matt to attract Devyn for him? Matt hadn't thought that Foggy actually liked the rather mousy little cockroach.  
  
But before he had time to calculate how the mask would react and do that, Foggy instead winced, palmed his face, and said, "Matt--I mean that if you really want to, you can sleep with girls too, okay, like I don't mean that you _have_ to, you never have to, but that's what college is for?"  
  
The mask nodded and smiled and pretended to understand that, while Matt seethed. He _would_ have to have sex with Foggy, and at this rate tonight too, before he was so insultingly replaced with some random woman. Sex was a dance and he would prove to Foggy that he was so, so much better at it than any free person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Sherman Alexie's "Recession", which can be read here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/133607553471/recession-sherman-alexie


	14. you are your own voyeur

Matt steeled himself for the rest of the day, and when they were both finished eating, he had worked up the courage to lean forward and kiss Foggy's mouth while he picked up the bowl.  
  
Matt was a good kisser, better than many others, and he knew how to make a kiss as enticing as a kneel. He put the bowls in the sink, and then went back to Foggy, who felt flushed.  
  
"You sure, Matt?"  
  
Matt was very sure, so he kissed Foggy again in response. He didn't want to say _yes_ , that implied other things to free people, wasn't sure he could lie that well.  
  
So Matt let the mask take over, develop more as they moved to the bedroom, kissing as they went. The mask liked this, the mask harnessed Matt's experiences, flipped the roles. The mask was treating Foggy--not quite verbally, but physically--like a very well-behaved pet, sweet and deserving of pleasure. Matt mused to himself that it was kind of ironic, given that Foggy would probably be a terrible slave, much too naive, but you had to please your owner, like it or not.  
  
He stripped Foggy's clothes, unable to stop his fingers from quickly folding them as he went, couldn't let them get wrinkles, and distracted him by tangling a hand in his hair, tugging gently and rhythmically.  
  
"Oh _fuck_ , Matt, that feels good," Foggy babbled as he leaned down to bite at his neck, calculating possible actions. Matt had to make this good or be replaced. He refused to be thrown away like trash for a second time in his life. (The owner who only owned him for a night _did not count_. Master Pendergrass had since become a wanted fugitive, anyway.)  
  
Matt's hands came forward and tugged hard at Foggy's nipples, making him shriek. Such poor discipline. But then Matt wasn't sure of what to do for a moment--nudge him down? Fuck him? Finger him? What did Foggy want, why didn't he just _tell_ Matt?  
  
Foggy writhed a little more and said, "Hey, I know you've got the whole stoic thing going on, but wanna get on the comfortable bed?"  
  
Sex on beds was usually somewhat less injurious and painful. The mask grinned and said, "Let's."  
  
They got onto it--Matt on top--and Matt's hands wriggled down and down, squeezing Foggy's ass gently. The mask asked, "Can I--?" not as a question, but as a foregone conclusion.  
  
Foggy said, a little uncertainly, "I don't--uh--that sounds like a lot of work--" and Matt realized what he meant. While one could be fucked without lubricant or prep work, it did often cause tearing, and Matt didn't want to give Foggy an infection, so instead he said, "Fingers only, then."  
  
He didn't actually make another physical move until Foggy, hiding his face in his elbow, nodded.  
  
Matt realized Foggy might be _worried_ , so he leaned down and petted Foggy's hair with one hand and sucked on the other. Sex wasn't all that bad, once you got used to it, and Foggy was the owner, he was the one the sex was all for, anyway.  
  
Matt's fingers delicately began circling, then pressing in, one then two, and Foggy's mouth fell open and he started incoherently moaning. The mask smiled at him and said, "Good, huh?"  
  
Foggy babbled back, "Fuck, Matt, that's awesome, kinda weird-feeling but _awesome_ ," and then trailed to a high shriek when Matt found his prostate. The mask laughed a little and kissed him, and Matt wished Foggy would shut up and come already.  
  
Matt fingered Foggy in the most effective, thorough way he knew, getting to three fingers, alternating languid and fast, stroking and twisting and flicking, going over the prostate and then teasingly going right next to it. All the while Foggy fell apart like it was a religious experience, a fit of ecstasy.  
  
Matt suppressed mild jealousy and focused on giving Foggy the best orgasm of all; when Foggy got closer and closer, Matt wriggled downwards and placed his mouth on Foggy's cock, and swallowed it whole.  
  
Foggy's whole body convulsed and then he came not ten seconds after. Matt milked him through the orgasm, swallowing on reflex, and afterwards leaned over and kissed and cuddled Foggy.  
  
"Hey, dude, what about you--?" Foggy mumbled sleepily. Matt blinked and the mask rolled his hips a little--if Foggy had an orgasm generosity fetish, Matt knew he had to fulfill it--so Matt's hand came down and started to twist.  
  
"Lemme--come on my mouth, I can't even move, your finger game too strong, fuck, Matt," and so Matt obeyed even though it felt alien and intrinsically _wrong_.  
  
Matt counted it as a victory that Foggy was so sex-drugged that he mumbled, just before he fell asleep, "Matt, jesus fuck, best sex ever, you're some kinda sex god."  
  
He didn't sleep that night until late, listening to the sounds of the neighborhood, the city where he grew up before he was sold and became something else than human.  
  
\--  
  
The rest of the week went fairly well, apart from the fact that Devyn kept trying to talk to Matt.  
  
Matt's current strategy was to ignore him as much as possible. He was getting good at pretending to be listening to other things, but sooner or later he'd have to crack. He thought about saying that his owner didn't permit him to speak to free people without prior approval, but Foggy was openly liberal enough that Matt didn't quite think that would work, and in addition Devyn might respond by asking Foggy for permission to have Matt talk back to him, and even if Foggy _didn't_ punish Matt for that--which seemed absurd, Matt would honestly deserve it, slaves were not supposed to create any further inconveniences--it would still be utterly humiliating and create problems upon problems.  
  
That, and if Foggy actually gave Matt permission to talk to him--or ordered him to do more to Devyn--Matt wouldn't have any excuses left to hide behind, and if he had to suck off the little twit in addition to the charade sex with his owner, he might actually hit his head on the counter like he fantasized about sometimes.  
  
So instead Matt dodged, dodged, dodged, thinking frantically about how to escape the situation more effectively. He eventually came up with, maybe, pretending to be shy or tenderhearted. He almost dismissed it right away because it was ridiculous, but at the same time, ridiculous lies sometimes worked more than sensible ones.  
  
So after class on Friday, when Devyn cornered Matt, Matt gave a shy hint of a smile, and utilized the tactic of pretending to let him in on a secret. People loved to be let in on a secret so much, they let their feelings overwhelm their sense of skepticism. You could sell a lot of lies as truths, if you made them seem like conspiracies.  
  
"So, like, you seem really nervous all the time, are you okay, what's your last name?"  
  
God, Matt wished Devyn would just get hit by a car. "I'm Matt," he said, ducking his head a little. It was the first time he had said anything to him. "I don't, um," and there Matt let his voice drop to a lower and lower volume, making it seem like he was timid, rather than angry and wary and properly paranoid, "I don't, my owner doesn't, I can't," and the vaguer you were, the more they filled in the gaps for you.  
  
"Oh dude that sucks, would you like to come to the abolitionist group?"  
  
What the fuck? Matt couldn't quite believe that people this stupid even got into law school. He blinked, trying to figure out if the bit of metal he could sense in the middle of Devyn's face was a nose-ring or a septum ring.  
  
"I, uh, I don't think--" and then Devyn _pressed a pamphlet into his hand_ , their fingers brushing. Matt jerked backwards without thinking--what the _fuck_ kind of play was this guy making, who did he think he was.  
  
Devyn didn't seem to notice, instead monologuing at Matt about animal rights and testing and hey maybe Matt could come to a rally too against animal testing. Matt very carefully did not say what he actually thought about animal rights--he wasn't supposed to have any political opinions anyway, but he did, and they were irrelevant, but he thought them anyway--and about how if things weren't tested on animals, they were tested on slaves. And anything that fed the machine that bought slaves and ground them up for free people to have better erection-maintaining pills was something everyone could do without. Matt almost ended up as a zombie himself, a walking corpse. Medical research facility slaves didn't come back out of those buildings once they were forced in.  
  
Matt liked even extremely annoying or badly-trained slaves better than dogs. Not better than cats, but sometimes you had to make sacrifices to survive. That was how the world worked, sometimes it was you or someone else, and nobody deserved it, but you had to choose anyway.  
  
Once Devyn was done giving Matt a poorly organized and passionately delivered speech, he cheerfully pressed another pamphlet into Matt's hands and ran off to his next class, not seeming to realize that if they weren't Braille, Matt couldn't read them.  
  
Matt methodically tore them into tiny strips at the nook in the library with Barely Legal that day, shredding them and then recycling them in different little bins all around the library. It was work, but it helped him pacify some of the ever-present rage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from a quote from Margaret Atwood's Robber Baron: "Male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies? Up on a pedestal or down on your knees, it’s all a male fantasy: that you’re strong enough to take what they dish out, or else too weak to do anything about it. Even pretending you aren’t catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you’re unseen, pretending you have a life of your own, that you can wash your feet and comb your hair unconscious of the ever-present watcher peering through the keyhole, peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere else. You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur."


	15. there are no children. never.

That weekend was the birthday party of one of Foggy's cousins, and as Matt was beginning to learn, this meant that there was going to be a large all-family gathering. Matt wasn't a part of the family, not really, but Foggy had been asked to bring him along, and so Matt obediently went.  
  
Five seconds in the doorway, and Matt was trying to figure out how to hang up his coat in the way that placed it out of the way of any free peoples' coats--there were coats tossed over the banister, fallen on the floor, and hung up on the straining hooks--when a free woman holding something came up to him, said very quickly, "Can you watch over her? She's pretty overwhelmed and I'm so exhausted having to take care of her by myself 24/7 and she's probably just tired but I can't deal with it, just hold her and rock her and maybe talk to her a bit and you're probably gonna be out of the way anyway the whole time, no offense but you're not exactly personable, so here," and placed something--warm soft alive--in his arms.  
  
Foggy spluttered in disbelief, and then she said, cranky, "For god's sake Foggy, he's got nannying experience, I read the file when you left it on the coffee table at your birthday party, he'll be fine, just don't fuck him in front of her, okay, actually come with me and talk to us for once," and pulled Foggy's arm.  
  
Foggy turned and asked Matt, "Will you be okay?"  
  
Matt, feeling faintly dizzy from the sudden events, nodded. "I can take care of a baby," he said softly. He could. He wanted to.  
  
"...okay then," said Foggy, and the woman huffed out " _Finally_ , for fuck's sake let's go," and pulled Foggy into the mass of free people in the other rooms.  
  
Matt found a spot to sit on the stairs, not the floor--to easy for something to hit the baby by accident--and let himself just feel the small warmth in his arms, listen to the hummingbird heartbeat.  
  
She was so _small_. Matt felt something well up inside of him, holding this baby. She was small, and overwhelmed, and helpless, defenseless. She couldn't choose her clothes or when she was bathed or who touched her. She couldn't communicate what she really felt or understand anything.  
  
But she would get to someday. He hoped. Matt couldn't understand anyone wanting to hurt this small, perfect person in his arms, couldn't quite get why her mother had shoved her into his grip and practically sprinted away.  
  
"Hello," he murmured to her, making sure his voice was higher-pitched and calmer. "It's a bit much, isn't it all?"  
  
She stopped fussing and cooed at him. Matt's heart did something in his chest.  
  
He continued--if talking helped her calm down, he certainly would, he would do anything. "I'm Matt, I didn't quite catch your name."  
  
She ooh'd. Matt smiled and hid it against her stomach and said, " _Ooo_ , that's your name?"  
  
She ooh'd again, and tiny hands reached out to grab his hair. Matt blinked and pushed away the phantom sensation of other times people had pulled his hair, and took a minute to try to convince himself to untangle her tiny little hands from it. He eventually won the fight with himself, on account of his shampoo had scents--it was strawberries and cream, okay but not his favorite of that brand, but Foggy did the shopping and Matt could not complain, he refused to be whiny or bratty--and it might irritate her skin.  
  
She seemed perfectly happy, though, trying to stick her fingers everywhere, fingering his scarf and shirt and then sticking her hand in his mouth.  
  
Matt froze, for a second tasting nitrile, like the gloves at the intake officer's cubicle, the thought _he left he left he left, he left me here, I'm just a failure like he said at first_ echoing.  
  
Matt carefully pushed it away--no use crying over locked collars--and instead very gently bit at a finger. He couldn't give her bad habits. You couldn't trust people so much that you stuck your fingers in their mouths, or anything else. Not when you were so small.  
  
Her hands next went to his collar, feeling under it, and she squealed at the soft rabbit fur. Matt smiled--it was a very good fur, real, and soft against his neck, no irritation or chafing at all--and when he tugged at it, clearly wanting to touch and play, Matt forgot himself and unlocked the collar, giving it to her to rub her cheek against.  
  
He took a very deep breath when he realized what he had done--he had just earned himself some deep, horrible, humiliating punishment, he didn't know what Foggy would decide on but it would have to really hurt, Matt couldn't do things like that, it was so disrespectful and stupid, he felt so ashamed of himself--and gently removed it from her surprisingly strong grasp, took it back, and closed it against his neck himself. It was a velcro clasp, thankfully, not a lock.  
  
She started to fuss again, probably picking up on his upset, and Matt made himself relax. He had a cuddly baby on his lap now, and a simple, cozy task. He should be grateful. He _was_ grateful, he realized.  
  
Matt missed infant-nannying; he had done it for four months and then Mistress Janet had had to sell him or file for bankruptancy and, well, the choice was obvious. Matt didn't blame her at all. She had cried the night before, and so had her twins as she pushed their stroller out the door of the auction reception hall.  
  
Matt realized the baby was going to get really upset and start to cry if he didn't distract her again, and his heart jolted with adrenaline at the thought of the crying baby. Bad things happened to crying children, Matt knew in his bones.  
  
So instead, he grasped at straws and pulled her close and rocked her back and forth with his body, and started to tell her the tale of _Schneewittchen_ from memory. "Es war einmal mitten im Winter, und die Schneeflocken fielen wie Federn vom Himmel herab..." he began.  
  
Some minutes later, just as he was saying "...in die rotglühenden Schuhe treten und so lange tanzen," Foggy came by the staircase and stood. Matt made himself finish the story, murmur to the baby _Ende_ and rub his face against her head to make her sigh happily, and then turned some attention to Foggy.  
  
Foggy's body language was--strange, and somehow very content. Matt wished he hadn't taken his collar off earlier, because he wanted to enjoy Foggy's contentedness, but he had, and that was that.  
  
"Should I hand her back now?" Matt asked.  
  
"No, you seem pretty happy here," Foggy said. Matt smiled quietly; finally, Foggy thought he liked something that he actually did. "I just came by to see if I should grab you some food or something."  
  
"I'm okay," Matt murmured. Slaves who took their collars off did not deserve food.  
  
"Not even thirsty?"  
  
Matt paused--this could be a very bad move, but his mouth was very dry--and very tentatively asked, "Maybe some water?"  
  
Foggy said, "Sure, dude, let's get you that."  
  
Matt waited for Foggy to leave, and refocused on the baby. "Another story?" he asked her.  
  
She giggled, and he smiled, and then began a different one. "Einem reichen Manne, dem wurde seine Frau krank, und als sie fühlte, daß ihr Ende herankam..."  
  
Foggy came back with water right when Matt finished saying, "...schlimme Zeit für das arme Stiefkind an."  
  
Matt accepted the water, drank a little, and then Foggy stood there still.  
  
"Is there something else I should be doing?" Matt asked, softly. He didn't want to do anything but hold and soothe the baby, entertain her, but he was obedient. He knew he was.  
  
"What? No, dude, keep going, I've never heard you speak German before, it's really pretty."  
  
Matt blinked--had Foggy not watched the auction advertisement videos that Rosalind Sharpe had sent him? Probably not, he didn't appreciate his gift. But that contained an order, and so Matt cleared his throat and continued, giving the evil stepsisters the voices of Mistress Sharon's pet and an overseer. Nobody got the joke.  
  
He finished _Aschenputtel_ and then went on to tell the baby _Hänsel und Gretel_ \--one of his favorites--and then it was time for them to leave. Foggy had explained beforehand that they either had to leave relatively early or else get sucked in to staying too long, but Matt felt instantly icy as he handed the baby back to her mother, who seemed calmer and happier.  
  
He felt colder and colder as they went back to the tiny apartment, shivering as they got in the doorway. He had to confess what he'd done and then endure his punishment, or else Matt would crack like an egg and go quietly insane, he knew it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Jeanann Verlee's poem "The Session", here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/60819332967/jeanann-verlee-performs-the-session-full


	16. it must be exhausting to want to live this much.

On the way back home, Foggy decided to try to make nice. His cousin Allie had payed for a cab for them, so he could actually talk to Matt.  
  
He turned towards him, saw Matt's strange, closed-off, fearful expression, and plowed ahead anyway. "So, I guess you like fairy tales? Or at least telling them to kids? A fan of happy endings?"  
  
Matt's face shuttered closed even more, but then he licked his lips--which looked dry and cracked, as if he'd been biting them--and said, quietly, "Fairy tales aren't about happy endings. They're about mothers, and fathers, and wicked women, and greedy men, and dragons, and forests, and children who get hurt and hurt and _hurt_ and--" he cut himself off, then finished, "But sometimes they live. That's the happy ending. They get to live sometimes."  
  
Foggy had absolutely _nothing_ to say to that, he had to idea how to make Matt feel any better except maybe with a hug, so he put an arm around Matt's shoulders and pulled him close, and then made himself stare out the window, watching the dark streets, the lights like Christmas.  
  
\--  
  
They got home pretty much uneventfully after that, except that as they approached, Matt seemed to be quietly getting more and more anxious, and the second Foggy had closed the door behind them, Matt had dropped to his knees on the kitchen floor. Foggy took a step back and made himself say gently, "Hey, buddy, dude, are you okay there?"  
  
"I took off my collar," Matt said, voice like a blues singer, full of thready pain and despair. "I didn't mean to, Foggy, and it was only a second, but I did, and I apologize for my--disrespectfulness, and shameful behavior. Please punish me how you see fit."  
  
Foggy blinked. "What? Why would you do that?"  
  
Matt put his hands behind his head, lacing them together, and lowered his head to the tile, and said, "I--the baby wanted to feel more under the collar, she liked the rabbit fur, and I wasn't thinking enough, so I took it off and let her touch it for a moment. Then I remembered myself, and put it back on, but I need--please punish me, Foggy, how you see fit."  
  
Foggy felt like what he imagined people felt like in their first earthquake. He wasn't exactly sure what this meant, but it wasn't good. "So what I'm hearing is that...you're...fine? I mean, nobody saw you or anything, nobody cares, I don't think it matters?"  
  
Matt's breathing was coming faster and faster, audibly. He said again, very quietly, "I can't--I know I can't do things like that, they are beyond dangerous, I can't be so inappropriate or--slaves who do things like that, if they are not punished, if no-one corrects them they die. They just--it feeds into itself, it's a vicious cycle--Foggy please punish me however you see fit," and then he shuddered on the floor, too panicked to talk.  
  
Foggy stared at Matt, thinking. It was just like the thing with the collar, then. Something horrible that Matt needed because he was super, super, beyond-anything-Foggy-knew fucked up. Matt looked like he was having a panic attack; Foggy needed to help Matt calm down, then, even if it was by doing something he hated. He could do it for Matt, who probably wouldn't actually relax until Foggy made him do something he didn't like.  
  
Foggy's brain generated an image of him hitting Matt, not hard, and he felt sick. He couldn't do that, it wasn't right, Matt wasn't hurting him, this wasn't a self-defense kind of a situation. He wouldn't.  
  
So a thought popped into his mind.  
  
"Okay, but I don't really know what you do or don't like much," Foggy said. This could be a way for them to communicate better. "So I want you to tell me three things you don't like, so I can come up with something that won't hurt you but can help you calm down, and three things you do like, so I can make it up to you afterwards."  
  
That should help.  
  
\--  
  
Matt breathed through the fear, not fighting it but leaning into it, thinking. Foggy had put him in a nasty bear trap with this, but he could gnaw his leg off if need be. Cut off your nose to save your face, and all that.  
  
He thought of things he liked. Easier to offer those first.  
  
"I like strawberries, Foggy," because that was true, he could eat pounds of them and love them anyway, "I like--blankets, especially fleece," because that was true, he could sleep without them too, "I--" his brain blanked for a second and then he remembered Foggy getting them to try to watch movies together, Foggy seemed to like narrating, he fished around for one that Foggy would like too, and since he appeared to like cheap horror, Matt said, "I like _Texas Chainsaw Massacre_ ," and if Foggy forbade him from seeing it ever again that was fine, Matt had it memorized.  
  
The next part would hurt more. Matt listened to Foggy's body, breathing quieter as he calculated. What he said would have to actually hurt, actually be something he hated, because he deserved this. Slaves who took off their collars deserved being _whipped_ , deserved being locked in a cage and ignored for a week, but Foggy didn't own a whip or a cage, so Matt would have to come up with something equivalent.  
  
Matt swallowed his terror and said, as much appropriate submissiveness injected into his voice that he could (that he _should_ have shown earlier, why had he been so careless stupid selfish uppity little _idiot_ ), "I--I don't like being choked with a belt, it's very easy for someone--an owner to lose control of the choking that way and cause permanent brain damage," being choked with hands was something he could endure without breaking, "I don't like being hungry," and that was something Matt could deal with, he could sit in front of delicious-smelling food and not take one bite, he had the self-control, "and I don't like sleep deprivation, I can be functional until the fifth or sixth day," when the hallucinations became impossible to distinguish from reality.  
  
Foggy was silent, but Matt could tell he wasn't exactly happy, and then Foggy crouched down near him and said, in the tone people used for unreasonably scared dogs, "I'm not ever going to do that stuff to you, that's fucking torture, that's unacceptable. But if--look, Matt," and here he became pleading, Matt's heart sank, "If you want me to help you calm down by making you do something you don't like, it has to be something I'm actually willing to do to you, okay? Nothing like hitting you or not letting you eat or choking you until you get brain damage, nothing like that, okay? You're safe here."  
  
What a cruel lie. Matt's mind raced, suggesting things, but the problem was that what Matt didn't like that Foggy had already done to him were all things Foggy thought, in his self-absorbed fantasy world, that Matt enjoyed as much as him. Sex, hugs, being smiled at, pineapple juice, talking like a free person...he couldn't think of anything. He could tell now that the siren bells of panic were receding that his previous suggestions were useless.  
  
"I, I could punish myself if it's too much a bother for you?" he offered, hoping Foggy would say yes. He knew when to stop before any real damage was done.   
  
"...okay buddy, but I'm going to be here watching."  
  
Well, Matt could deal with that. He would have kissed Foggy's shoes, but he remembered Foggy saying to not do that, and so instead his lips pressed against Foggy's hand in gratefulness, and then he went to the tool drawer to find the pliers.  
  
\--  
  
Foggy was making himself stay calm as he could. He could freak out about Matt's previous owners and what kind of sick fucks they were later, when Matt was calming down.   
  
He made himself think about how to get Matt strawberries and some nice blankets instead; he was pretty sure that one store where everything was five dollars or less had a bunch of blankets that were soft, he could buy Matt a bunch and not break his budget. He could also make sure to pick up plenty of strawberries at the grocery store. They weren't in season, but fuck it, Foggy knew he had to make this up to Matt.  
  
Matt shifted on his knees and felt inside the tool drawer--Foggy was about to ask him if he needed help to find something--and then shut it, delicately, with a pair of pliers in his hand. Foggy didn't know what he was about to do.  
  
Then Matt stood up and went to the counter, and laid down five or so paper towels. Now Foggy felt really nervous, just like before a lightning storm hit.   
  
Then Matt placed one of his beautiful hands on the paper towels--Foggy could have slapped himself, now was not the time to be admiring Matt--and placed the pliers at the end of one of his nails, and took a deep breath--  
  
Foggy startled and said, louder than he meant to, "What the fuck! No!"  
  
Matt froze.  
  
"What the fuck! Why are you _doing_ that, don't do that, you'll hurt yourself," Foggy babbled and rushed over.   
  
"I--Foggy, it doesn't cause any permanent damage to the cuticle, it hurts but the nails grow back, it's a good long-term reminder of what you did wrong and why you can't do it again," Matt said, pleading. "Please--please let me do something, Foggy, I can't start down that path, everything will have been for nothing."  
  
Foggy wanted to vomit. He grasped the pliers, standing behind Matt, and pulled them out of his grip, holding Matt until he went limp.  
  
"I--look, Matt, okay what about this," and Foggy grabbed at a straw and ran with it, "I saw in a movie once, what if you did, um, pushups? As many as you could? That would hurt but you wouldn't get actually hurt, would you be okay with that? Would that work?"  
  
\--  
  
Matt felt a quiet rush of elation. He could do that, he could most certainly do that. Foggy was not just giving him a chance to be punished and therefore be forgiven, he was giving him a way to do it that would remind Matt of what he had done wrong for _days, weeks_ even--if he did enough and they hurt enough, he'd remember it every time he did any.  
  
Matt kissed Foggy's hand as he sank down to the proper position, murmured, " _Thank you_ , Foggy, thank you so much, I don't deserve your generosity," and started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Catalina Ferro's "Anxiety Group", here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/104251377745/thrivingonwords-there-is-a-german-satellite


	17. the man wants to sit with the dog

Foggy watches Matt do push-ups in the apartment and gets more and more unnerved as he goes on.  
  
It's not just the whole situation, though it's true that everything is officially _fucked_. It's the little things--the way that Matt's face is completely calm and blank, the fact that he's not making any form of grunting or other noise of effort, the way he looks both strangely grateful and utterly crushed emotionally.  
  
Foggy tries to think about what it must be like inside Matt's head, to make him think that he _needed_ to be hurt to be safe again. He flinched away from it, and then made himself try again. He tried to think of _why_ Matt was so freaked out at taking off the collar (for a second, just for a second, to let a baby play with it, nobody had seen anything at all, why would Matt even think Foggy cared).  
  
He thought about the words _I can't start down that path, everything will have been for nothing_ and winced. It sounded like...well, the closest Foggy had heard was one of his friends in undergrad, in the middle of a nervous breakdown, had screamed that she couldn't possibly take a medical withdrawal and/or change from Chemistry to a major she wasn't terrible at because it would mean that all the hard work her parents had put in would be for nothing.  
  
Did Matt think of that beautiful woman--slave, Foggy winced, feminists were divided on whether or not calling a slave a woman was insulting to women or not, and in undergrad for a while he'd sided with yes it was insulting--as the equivalent of his mother? Did he feel obligated to stay as broken and submissive as he had been when Foggy got him for _her_?  
  
But at the same time, that day when Rosalind had given him to Foggy, wrapped up in nothing but ribbons under his suit, Matt wasn't quite broken, was he? He hadn't looked scared or humiliated or anything. He had looked calm and confident and perfect at playing the part. Looking back on it, he had looked precisely as dignified as he had kneeling in class every morning.  
  
Maybe it was something to do with that. Maybe, in Matt's mind, if he wasn't punished for doing things like taking off his collar, he would somehow lose the dignity and strength to kneel or strip in public and not give one fuck who saw him.  
  
Foggy didn't know. He wasn't a psychologist. And he'd never tried to find psychology books on slaves after the first few had turned out to be the same pornographic bullshit as those websites. Maybe if he just focused on PTSD psychology books instead, he'd understand Matt better.  
  
_Or_ , a voice in his head commented, _you could try actually talking to him more_.  
  
Foggy winced. He had tried that, but the problem with Matt was that he was some kind of chameleon who agreed with quite literally whatever Foggy said. Once Foggy had glanced at the sky and remarked that it was green and Matt had said, in that eerie tone, _Of course, Foggy_.  
  
Granted, that was kind of a bad example, because Matt was completely blind and had no idea what the sky even looked like anymore, probably, but maybe Foggy could try communicating with him more indirectly. In the cab on the way here, he'd gotten a little glimpse of what Matt actually thought.  
  
It gave Foggy an idea. Maybe he could ask Matt more about those German fairy tales and see more of what his opinions were.  
  
In the meantime, Matt was drenched in sweat, and Foggy realized that he had spent way longer sitting there and thinking than he had meant to. Matt had done so many, his arms were shaking.  
  
"Hey, Matt, I think that's plenty," Foggy said gently.  
  
"I--I can do more, Foggy," Matt gasped out, still going at it.  
  
"No, that's--that's enough, stop, seriously you're making me feel bad about myself here," Foggy said, trying to puncture the atmosphere with a joke. Hey, maybe he could ask Matt about jokes that he liked!  
  
Matt stopped in the plank position, looking like agony and beauty at the same time. Those fucking _muscles_ , goddamn, Foggy admired them heavily.  
  
"Hey, come on," he said, and hurried over to help Matt up. Even drenched in sweat, Matt was indescribably, ineffably gorgeous. He smelled so good too, Foggy almost buried his nose in his armpit for a moment.  
  
"So, uh, Matt, you should probably shower."  
  
Matt nodded, and then murmured, "Will you be joining me then, Foggy?"  
  
Foggy gaped--Matt must be having some sort of flashback or something--and said, swallowing around the part of him that badly wanted to, "No, uh, I'm good."  
  
\--  
  
Matt showered as efficiently as possible. That way, he could justify taking another two or so minutes to himself; Foggy had said early on once that Matt could have 'five minutes, seriously dude, we're not that poor' and Matt had no desire to offend his owner.  
  
He sat down carefully in the shower once he was actually clean, turning up the water to warm and then hot, so he used as little hot water as he could. He luxuriated in it, tried to focus on that.  
  
The endorphins of being punished were going to his head. He felt almost dizzy with happiness at how he'd been allowed to punish himself. Finally, Foggy was starting to act like a proper owner, and all he'd had to do was _beg_. Beg in a new way, invoking his _feelings_ , as if that mattered at all, but now Matt knew that if he saved it up for special occasions and begged for a punishment when he really deserved one, he could get one, even if it was unorthodox.  
  
Matt leaned his head back against the shower wall, grinning. He resolved to perform even better the next time Foggy wanted sex.  
  
When he left the shower, he even went up to Foggy and kissed him, mostly to test if his new observation was correct, that Foggy had an exercise fetish.  
  
Foggy pulled his head back, though, and Matt abruptly froze.  
  
"Hey, Matt, that reminds me, there's a concept I'd like you to see, uh, I mean read about, it's this thing called _enthusiastic consent_ , can I send you a link? And you'll read it?"  
  
"Of course I will, Foggy," he said, too high on punishment to care about his soon-to-be-sore muscles or his owner's undervaluing of him.  
  
"Okay, because I like this whole thing we've got going on, but just in case, you know? And I think you're kinda too out of it tonight to be really consenting, okay? Maybe during the week, I've got a lot of studying to do tomorrow."  
  
How weird, for an owner to be bargaining with him for delayed sex. As if he had to.  
  
Matt made himself nod and look smaller, less possibly threatening, and then he went to bed. Right before he fell asleep, he thought to himself, _maybe it isn't quite so bad with this owner after all_.  
  
\--  
  
Foggy went out shopping the next morning. Matt offered to come with him, but Foggy shook his head, so Matt focused on slowly doing his tasks--coffee and toast with jam for him, Foggy liked him to eat three meals--despite his rock-hard muscles. The aches he accepted, he deserved. _All pain is a lesson, and all lessons can make you better._  
  
Matt had been forgetting that, getting arrogant. He'd have to come up with some time and a way to remind himself to stay in his place. Perhaps one hour at night he'd kneel on the hard floor and very very quietly recite the things he'd been told.  
  
Foggy came back and the first thing Matt noticed was the smell of strawberries. Could it be--?  
  
It was. Foggy pressed the box to him, a large box, two pounds, saying, "So you said you like these?"  
  
"I love strawberries, Foggy," Matt said and promptly mentally kicked himself, he was not supposed to say _love_ , but then Foggy didn't seem to care, saying instead, "Great! So eat as many as you want whenever you want, they're for you, and so are these," and then he thrust two shopping bags with unusually smooth textures at Matt.  
  
Matt carefully put the strawberries on the counter, and then felt inside the bags. There were extremely soft, fluffy microfleece blankets in there, a good five of them.  
  
Foggy bounced on his heels. "See, you said you like blankets, and there was a sale, so I got them for you."  
  
His heartbeat skips, so Matt tilts his head, trying to calculate which part is the lie. He settles on, "For me?"  
  
Foggy nods. "Totally for you, dude, like I've always wanted to wrap you in blankets and feed you soup, now I can, thanks for telling me."  
  
Matt blinks and resolves to later pinch himself somewhere where it hurt, for failing to live up to Foggy's other new fetish.

\--

Matt looks ecstatic to Foggy, so Foggy says, "And hey, just so you know, if you need things from me, I'll try to give you them, okay? It's kind of my responsibility to take care of you."

He goes forward to give Matt a hug, and catches something on his face that Foggy dismisses as having been a trick of the light. For a second there, Matt had looked disbelieving.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Jeanann Verlee's "The Telling", here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/118961125887/she-is-a-tornado-he-is-a-man-he-is-solid-and


	18. you know after this hole there’s just another and another

Foggy stops the hug and then says, "Um, anyway, studying," and disappears off to go do that instead of trying to talk more to Matt. It's a cowardly thing, but Foggy has long since accepted his own cowardice when it comes to certain things. He's not the kind of person who can or will fight everyone and anyone. He's just not.  
  
He goes and he studies, and before too long he hears what he's pretty sure is Matt settling down to study too.  
  
\--  
  
Matt puts the strawberries in the fridge, and the blankets he folds again into squares and piles up carefully on the bed Foggy has him sleep on. If Foggy wants to wrap him up in them and feed him soup later, Matt will make it easier for him. God only knows it would be simpler than the whole deviant charade of the earlier sex.  
  
Would Foggy want Matt to blow him after the soup? Feed him his cock too? Stroke his hair? Was it a part of some fantasy of very gently fucking a sick slave? Would Matt have to fake a fever? His mind bounced around, trying to find evidence, plucking strings, planning for contingencies.  
  
In the meantime, he set himself up with a glass of water--Foggy seemed to like it if Matt was more hydrated than he was most of the time--and studied. It gave his body a pleasant focus, even if law seemed to be the kind of field that people took far too seriously.   
  
It was actually a lot like being a slave, in a way. There were interpretations upon interpretations, arguments, subtle differences of opinion and prejudice that others insisted wasn't there. It reminded Matt of listening to arguments between two overseers, and them trying to persuade the owner of the rightness of each of them.   
  
Once one of the overseers at Mistress Sharon's house had tried to order Matt to bend over and be fucked; Matt had calmly pointed out that what he'd been sent down for was to fetch her a mojito and her pet and him some water, and that he couldn't afford to waste time like that. The overseer had grumbled, and the next time he had tried to fuck Matt, Matt had dodged it by walking away. The overseer had gotten caught and Mistress Sharon had given him a chance to make his case for being allowed to fuck Matt. He hadn't managed to persuade her at all, so she had demoted him to being the dishwasher.  
  
It was a nice memory, in a way. Winning always felt good.  
  
Matt finished his work fairly early, thankfully, and then went to go find the enthusiastic consent link. He read it once, frowned, read it again, and still didn't understand what it could possibly mean. What did _consent_ have to do with him anyway?  
  
Near as he could surmise, what Foggy had meant was that he wanted Matt to be happy, put on a show of consent, participate actively, and initiate sex. Well, Matt had mostly figured that out, but confirmation was nice.  
  
On the other hand, from what Matt could tell, if he was understanding the implications correctly, Foggy thought of Matt being enthusiastic about sex as a _moral issue_ , which made him swallow in fear. Owners were not rational about morality, they did not allow for small mistakes, merciful punishments.  
  
Foggy could _not_ be allowed to find out Matt was not in the least bit enthusiastic about sex with him.  
  
He took a deep breath and wrapped the mask around him again, letting it cheerfully go cook some vegetables for sandwiches while he thought, hidden inside himself like a matroshkya doll.  
  
First of all, he had to come up with some foolproof way to make Foggy think he was for sure perfect to play in his free-person love-romance fantasy. A strange idea came floating up to him through the bubbling cauldron of his head.   
  
What if he said _no_ sometimes? Not seriously, maybe even _not now_ or _I'm not sure I like that_ , and certainly not more than once or twice a month or if Matt was starting to slip down in performance, but that might just convince him.  
  
The more Matt thought about it, the better it sounded. It would confirm Foggy's desires and sidestep his insecurities, and protect Matt from Foggy's breakdown and subsequent cruelty if he discovered that Matt was not the lover of his dreams.  
  
(Owners who were mostly kind were the worst when they finally snapped. The ones who could dispense cruelty in small batches, gentle ways were better, because you knew it was coming. If Foggy snapped and actually hurt Matt properly, it would be vicious, it would be full of teeth, it would be bloody. It might scar him forever.)  
  
And if Matt only used it very sparingly and only on things he was closer to dislike than indifference on, Foggy wouldn't guess where the mask ended and where Matt began, but Matt would.  
  
He resolved to do that, and then he let himself feel his anger.  
  
The whole question of morality pissed Matt off. Morals didn't really apply to objects in the first place, except when they were valuable, and even then morals were like apologies or promises: they didn't matter and weren't important.  
  
Winter thought slavery was wrong, too, but he owned Summer and always would, and he could tell you any tens of thousands of reasons why it was wrong, but that changed nothing. Matt thought that stealing was wrong, at least in an abstract sense, or at least he had when he was a child, but he had stolen food before, or a small thing, a tchochkey that an owner wouldn't miss. Matt knew for a fact that killing an owner was _wrong_ —it was beyond wrong, it was something to wrong as Angel Falls was to a garden fountain—but he had done it anyway, he'd deliberately killed Master Robert, and he'd never really regretted it.  
  
(Master Robert had been the most awful owner by far, even worse than the one--Master Pendergrass--who had had Matt for a night and a half and made him blow a gun and then broken both Matt's legs and sold him back to the auction house five minutes after telling him he was dismissed. He'd languished in the auction house for months, bored out of his skull, eavesdropping on everyone out of desperation.)  
  
Morals didn't matter when you came down to the wire. People abandoned their morals in a thunderstorm, for fuck's sake. They might as well have never had them when it came to hurricanes. Morals were something for times of plenty, for harvest days, for whims. Owners had plenty of whims, they had the luxury of just casually deciding things like that. Matt didn't, and it infuriated him that Foggy thought that Matt's thoughts on morals made any real difference or actually mattered.   
  
It was like asking him what he felt about some other free-person issue—who the president ought to be, for example. It made no difference what he thought because he couldn't vote or campaign or do anything about it one way or another, and refusing to see that helplessness was just nasty.  
  
So when Foggy ate and asked him, "Hey, so what did you think?" Matt didn't say what he really thought, that it was a very strange delusion, that people didn't much care about what their throne was made out of as long as it didn't smell too rank.  
  
Instead he regurgitated some bullshit about how it was a very lovely concept, echoed back to Foggy the shredded origami doctrine of the enthusiastic consent gobbledygook, and kept his real thoughts to himself, instead carving out a strategy to change the conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Anne Boyer's "what resembles the grave but isn't", here: http://anneboyer.tumblr.com/post/48690531600/what-resembles-the-grave-but-isnt


	19. so I don’t have to worry my pretty little head about it

Foggy changed the topic after Matt's confirmed that he understood the concept of enthusiastic consent, and has probably gotten that Foggy doesn't want him to feel obligated.  
  
Instead, Foggy broaches a different conversational topic.   
  
"So, you liked those German fairy tales? Which one's your favorite?"  
  
Foggy was determined to plow through the awkward this time, connect better with Matt.  
  
Matt tilted his head, and said quietly, "I very much like _Schneewittchen_."  
  
That wasn't exactly the same thing as his _favorite_ , but that was fine, Foggy wouldn't push too hard. "I don't think I know it?"  
  
"The Disney version is _Snow White and the Seven Dwarves_ ," Matt explained. "Though the Disney version is also heavily bowdlerized and toothless, removing many of the key elements to make it more palatable to overprotective white upper-class families."  
  
Foggy blinked. That wasn't just a real opinion, it was a real _negative_ opinion. Maybe the key to getting them was to ask about things he didn't know about?  
  
"So how's it different from the Disney?"  
  
Matt paused. "I could--tell you the whole story? It's easier to see the differences like that."  
  
"Sure, why not."  
  
Matt had a really good storytelling voice, as it turned out, just like with Foggy's baby cousin Isayeah. The story was gory and creepy and very, very weird--eating your stepdaughter's liver and lungs? Strangling her with rainbow-colored shoelaces? The servant just _dropping_ the coffin?--but Matt clearly enjoyed it, smiling as he pronounced, "The End" at the end.  
  
"Not a happy ending?" Foggy poked, almost teasing.  
  
Matt ducked his head and said, slowly, "No, Foggy. She was _seven_ and he wanted her corpse because it was beautiful in the coffin, not her. And now that she's the consort--or the wife, or the future wife--of the prince, how's she going to get out of the castle? And could she ever go home, even if the stepmother's dead, her father's still there, quietly endorsing all the murder attempts. It's not a very happy ending."  
  
Foggy thought about it. "Huh, never thought of it that way."  
  
Matt's lips twitched, narrowed, and then immediately his whole face relaxed artificially. He said nothing, ate more.  
  
Foggy thought more about the story, about how random and horrible it had seemed to little Snow White. Did Matt think the whole world was as inexplicable and treacherous? Did he see Foggy as the prince, the rescuer only in name, by accident?  
  
Or was that just reading too much into it? After all, Foggy thought bitterly to himself, it wasn't like he had really rescued Matt. He still wasn't free.  
  
Yet.  
  
\--  
  
That night, as Matt slipped out of his bed to go kneel on the kitchen floor and pinch himself and remember other important life lessons, he froze instead.  
  
There were three people in the apartment.  
  
He listened harder, and heard a man with three guns, a woman with two, and a woman with just a knife.   
  
Stupid people. They probably thought this was an easy mark for them, a college kid.  
  
They were idiots.  
  
Matt remembered all his training, and sensed as hard as he could, listening and feeling with one hand outstretched.  
  
The space where the lamps were was hot; the light switches had been flipped only in the kitchen. Matt nodded to himself. He got up and snuck slowly into the hallway, ducking silently into the open bathroom and grabbing the bottle of acne face wash Foggy kept, and the heavy shower chair in the other hand.  
  
He opened the lid of the acne face wash carefully, silently.  
  
He got closer and closer, listening, and then when one went to go start down the hallway, he acted fast.  
  
It was the gunless woman. He squirted the face wash into her face, startling her, and hit her in the solar plexus with the chair, and then the knees. She collapsed with a bony crunch and a scream.  
  
Matt moved faster, flipping off the light and crouching.  
  
The two other two went panicked almost right away, not used to victims fighting back.  
  
Matt moved like a shadow, unnoticed, and went for the man with the guns.  
  
He jammed his thumbs in the man's eyes and threw him over the counter. Then he grabbed the woman with the gun's hair and cinched her four times in fast succession, yanking her face onto his knee, twisting his hip to make the kick stronger. He smashed her jaw and nose and stunned her and dropped her, grabbed one of the chef's knives, and went for the man with the gun.  
  
The man was still screaming, his hands clutching his face, so Matt only held the knife to his throat.  
  
Foggy was still asleep, courtesy of his melatonin tablets. Matt flicked away his irritation, cleared his throat, and called out, "Foggy! Wake up and call 911!"  
  
Foggy jolted at his voice, and muttered, "Matt, what the fuck?"  
  
"Foggy, call 911!" He shouted again. Any future punishment was worth it.  
  
Foggy did, and Matt was distracted by the woman with the guns getting up to come over and try to fight him. He stood up and very quickly stabbed the man in each wrist, disabling them, and pressed his foot on the man's throat, then threw the knife at her.  
  
He missed--she was still breathing--but it had scraped along her broken jaw, and he could smell the bone peeking out from the split skin.  
  
"Move again and I'll fucking crush his throat," Matt snarled, adrenaline making him feel like a force of nature. "Then I'll break your neck."  
  
The woman reeled back, and said dumbly, "But--you're a slave, there's just a law school kid and a slave here--"  
  
Matt's face curled in pure hatred. He hated being underestimated. He drew himself up.  
  
"I'm slave number 556682394441," he hissed. "Have fun trying to look me up from prison."  
  
The woman's eyes were huge. "We won't go to prison! We'll probably be enslaved and put in a cornfield chain gang and dead in five months!"  
  
"Not my fucking problem," and oh the sheer angry insolence felt so _good_ , like opiates after his appendix removal surgery.   
  
"I--we can't, you know how bad it is to be enslaved!"  
  
Matt was pitiless. "You should have thought of that before you tried to fucking kill me and my owner."  
  
"We weren't here to kill anyone! We were just going to _rob_ you!"  
  
That was a lie. He leeched all the heat out of his face.  
  
Foggy was in the room now, he realized. "Don't lie to me, I can hear it."  
  
Foggy seemed surprised at that. Matt kept his focus on her, the only one of them able to be a threat. The other woman was crying in the background about her knees.  
  
The woman gulped, and said, "I--look, okay, we weren't going to _kill_ anyone," and that was half-true, "We just wanted some fun after we got what we came for, it wouldn't've hurt at all, seriously."  
  
Matt was even less impressed at that. "I am not in the habit of letting people who are not my owner or who don't have my owner's permission use me," he said, cold and imperious.  
  
She started to whine incoherently, breaking down, and Matt heard the sirens.  
  
"Matt, are you okay--"  
  
And that's when the cops came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from "Shooter" by Jan Beatty, here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/83340316144/trigger-warning-sexual-assault-abuse


	20. like I’ll put on blue pajamas and blow you to smithereens if you cry the wrong number of tears

Foggy almost jumped as four cops came in and shouted immediately at Matt, "DOWN ON THE GROUND, HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD!"  
  
Matt, of course, instantly obeyed, his face flat as he lay on the ground besides what Foggy could see now was a guy, with his hands clutching his face, covered in blood.  
  
"Sir, is this your slave?"  
  
Foggy focused. He needed to be present and aware to help Matt and himself out. "Yeah, that's Matt."  
  
The cops moved from pointing their guns at Matt, and Foggy's heartbeat stopped skipping so fast.  
  
The cops moved, talking to each other, identifying the three robbers--home invaders? Attempted rapists?--and cuffing them.  
  
"Jesus," one muttered to her partner. "I hope like hell he's got the stamp, or else this fucking slave is getting put down for sure."  
  
Foggy felt terrified, but knew what to do. "I've got the papers, he's got it, don't worry," he said, opening the kitchen drawer where he kept them and yanking them out.   
  
One of the other cops, an older woman, came over and started to look through them. On page five, listing legal permissions, she found the stamp that slaves who were trained and legally permitted to defend their owner's home and self with violence, and called it to the three other cops.  
  
"It's got the stamp," she said. "Don't bag him then."  
  
"Doesn't CSU need to take samples?" One of them called back, a young guy, the one who had spoken up earlier.  
  
"They do," she called back, and turned to Foggy. "Sir, CSU will get here in about five minutes, they'll need to take pictures, swabs, evidence off your slave. They'll also need to take pictures and evidence from this entire apartment, and we'll need your statement and your slave's as well."  
  
Foggy nodded. "Yeah," he said.  
  
"Sir, are you hurt?"  
  
He shook his head. "I'm fine, Matt's the one who would have been injured, except he got there faster than they did."  
  
She scrutinized him. "Matt, huh," she said. "You call 556682394441 by the use-name all the time then?"  
  
Foggy abruptly felt a very new sensation. It was like anger that he was used to, but _cold_.  
  
"I call Matt by his name like I would any _other_ person," he said instead, voice going cold, like the way air sucked out of your lungs in winter.  
  
She stared at him and shrugged. "Alright, let's get your statement while the EMTs get these poor bastards."  
  
The EMTs had gotten there and were getting the three home invaders out on stretchers, each accompanied by a cop. So it was just Foggy, the cop talking to him, and Matt left.  
  
Foggy looked at her and fished around for pen and paper. "What's your name and badge number?" he asked. It was a good idea to take a note of these things.  
  
She glared at him, and then sighed and said, "This is Officer Kim David, badge number 181818-31311. State your name."  
  
Foggy stared back at her. "Franklin Edward Nelson," he said coolly, feeling like he'd felt only rarely before, like he was confident he could handle her.   
  
Foggy had not been in many serious crisis situations, but in a couple he'd felt like this. The time Candace had cut her eye when they were home alone. The time one of their neighbors had been pounding on the door, screaming about something crazy, and Foggy was babysitting the baby cousins there. The time with the eggnog fire.  
  
"Alright, give me your account of what happened."  
  
Foggy took a deep breath. "I went to bed and everything was normal," he said. "I woke up about ten minutes ago because I heard Matt yelling--"  
  
"Just to double-check, you heard _slave number 556682394441_ yelling?"  
  
"Yes, I heard Matt yelling for me to call 911. Matt's--" and Foggy had to put this just right, just like writing a paper, nothing else, he rationalized to himself, it didn't mean anything else- "Extremely good, so if he was yelling in the middle of the night at me to go call 911, it was real. So I got up and called 911 and then once the operator told me the cops were on their way, I got out of my room and went to go make sure Matt was also fine."  
  
"So it's out of the ordinary for slave number 556682394441 to shout?"  
  
What the hell relevance did that have to the situation? "Yes. I've never heard Matt yell before."  
  
It had freaked him the fuck out, actually. Foggy didn't want to imagine what could make Matt actually scream.  
  
He looked over to try to get Matt in his sight-line again and stared at the smears of blood on the floor, the way Matt's hands had something gooey on the thumbs. He couldn't stop staring for a minute.  
  
"So you didn't directly order him to use violence to defend your home?"  
  
Oh, Foggy could see _that_ trap coming. "I ordered him when I first got him to use whatever skills he had to help out in any way in an emergency situation, including physical self-defense and defense of me," he said, despite the fact that he had never said anything like that. They couldn't exactly verify against him, because Foggy lived alone with Matt, who would, Foggy knew, 100% back him up.  
  
The cop gave him a piercing stare. Foggy stared back. He could and would fight her like this all night if he had to. This was for Matt, who had protected him. Now it was Foggy's turn.  
  
The crime scene unit got there thirty seconds later and immediately started traipsing around. One of them roughly yanked up Matt by the hair to his feet, not even talking at him to get up, and Foggy stood up out of the chair he's unconsciously settled into and snapped, "Don't fucking hurt him."  
  
The technician turned to look at Foggy and dropped her hand out of Matt's hair. Matt looked...like a very flexible statue. Foggy realized that maybe this was Matt's way of coping when he was _scared_ and went over to make it better.  
  
"Look, you need to get photos and swabs, I understand that," and Foggy was glad he had the rhetorical skills to pull this off, thank god for his eleventh-grade English teacher, "But you don't need to hurt Matt over that, seriously."  
  
"Sir, we have no real reason to believe that your slave would obey any order from us," one of them, a tiny mousy guy with huge ears piped in. "And besides, who cares? It's just a little bit of hair."  
  
Foggy stared at him, trying to summon up the expression he had seen Rosalind use on an intern who made a sexist joke around her. The intern had cried as she fired him.  
  
The guy sighed and rolled his eyes, and Foggy took control of the situation a little more. "Matt, pose however they tell you, okay? And don't interfere with them taking samples or whatever. This will be over soon."  
  
"Yes, Foggy," Matt murmured, his voice so expressionless it might as well have been from one of his text-to-speech programs. Foggy wanted to yell at the cops and make them get _out_ but he knew that that wouldn't help at all.  
  
One of the techs actually reached towards his belt for a shock baton and Foggy said, angrier than he'd felt before, "What the fuck, no."  
  
The tech looked at Foggy. Foggy stared back.  
  
The tech sighed and went back to snapping at Matt to move there, and there, and like that, and not there.  
  
The three techs on Matt moved like army ants, and before Foggy knew it all Matt had to do was give a statement and they could go to a hotel for the night. Foggy went to go grab the quickest bag to pack for him and Matt; he threw in a couple pairs of clothes, pajamas, one of the new blankets for Matt, and their law school things, and went back into the kitchen to see that they had already started questioning Matt, who was kneeling on the floor, now naked.  
  
Foggy stared--he realized that they had to take off his clothes and bag them for evidence, but not giving Matt any new ones? He put the bag down, turned around, and hastily went for sweatpants and a t-shirt and one of Matt's hoodies.  
  
When he came back out, the older female cop was almost growling something at Matt. Foggy caught the tail end of a "and you _know_ that if this was even the tiniest bit illegitimate, we _will_ find out--"  
  
Foggy decided to intervene. "Is that all the questions you have, officer?"  
  
The officer's eyes went narrow and cold. "Don't leave town, and it's best to stay in a hotel for a few days in case we need to come back," she said, standing up. "And be careful with that slave. He's class-M, they need a firmer hand than you're giving."  
  
Foggy watched her and the rest of the techs _finally_ leave, feeling a swell of stone-cold fury in his veins. How _dare_ they treat Matt like that. He'd never really liked the police before, but now he could see why people hated them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from "Parable of the Supervillain" by Ada Hoffman, here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/127803089643/dont-think-i-didnt-watch-the-news-sister-of


	21. he understands now. he is a spiced wound.

Foggy stood, Matt could tell he was angry, and then once the cops left he immediately pushed something--fabric, clothes, clothes Matt recognized--into his hands.  
  
Matt obeyed the implicit order immediately, pulling the clothes on, trying to use his thumbs as little as possible. They still had vitreous humor on them.  
  
He felt faint and flying, still adrenaline-high. The police were far more frightening than the three would-be thieves had been, after all. The police could have killed him, after all.  
  
It wasn't likely that they would, not after they'd seen the stamp, not while Foggy was right there. But sometimes cops snapped and killed slaves, even expensive ones. Police destruction of property was a serious issue in New York, after all.  
  
Matt's heart was still thudding fast, almost as fast as Foggy's, as he stood back up once he was dressed.  
  
"Come on, I called a cab, we'll get to a hotel and get away from this blood," Foggy babbled. He sounded very distressed. Matt leaned close to him as they walked out of the apartment, locking it behind them, to try to siphon some of it off--if Foggy liked hugging as much as he did (and he did) then he probably liked other close physical contact--and it worked.  
  
Matt realized once they were properly outside that Foggy hadn't gotten him shoes, and his socks would be soaked in five seconds from the drizzle outside. He shrugged to himself; they would be in a hotel soon, and there was a sub-zero chance that Foggy would have him sleep outside of it, not after he had panicked at the way the cops had handled Matt.  
  
Matt remembered the words _Matt's extremely good_ and smiled to himself, a pleasant warmth in his stomach from the praise. He loved praise, it made life worth living, it really did.  
  
The cab came very quickly, and they got in, Matt ducking his head to hide any remaining blood splatter on it. The techs had swabbed most of it off, roughly, but he wasn't sure if any was still visible.   
  
He twitched at the fresh memory of the crime scene techs. Matt did not enjoy being handled that roughly, or absently, at all. They weren't his owner and he hadn't done a thing to deserve any punishment, except possibly getting the amount of blood he had on Foggy's floor.  
  
Matt ran through the ways he knew of to clean blood from linoleum and other floors while Foggy hugged him close through the ride, breathing like he was still scared.  
  
\--  
  
Matt seemed very quiet to Foggy, and he held him close. He couldn't stand the thought of losing Matt, of him getting _put down_ , as the cop had put it. Foggy tried to plan ahead, think of what he would tell his dad, oh god what was he going to tell Anna about this, if he could go straight back to classes on Monday.  
  
The first fucking weekend of law school and Matt had a gigantic freakout, Foggy punished him like a real slaveowner, and their house got fucking invaded and Matt almost shocked or taken away by cops. It seemed cosmically unfair to Foggy.   
  
He didn't let himself think about telling his parents or Candace about this, and instead tried to think of what to do once they were actually at the hotel. He felt strange all over.   
  
"Hey, Matt, how do you feel?"  
  
Just at that moment, Foggy's stomach growled, and Foggy was too surprised at it to really register what Matt said for a second.  
  
"You sound hungry," Matt remarked, voice soft and submissive. "Carbohydrate-heavy foods cause an insulin spike that dulls stress responses, Foggy."  
  
Foggy stared at him, and then realized that Matt was telling him to eat some comfort food and calm down.  
  
Oh. Matt probably _hated_ Foggy to be as jumpy and upset as he was. Fuck.  
  
Foggy took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. Okay, room service, he could afford that, his emergencies fund was actually pretty large since he'd ignored Rosalind's extra money with Matt to buy things like a cage or more 'slave accessories'. Matt's collar hadn't even cost much, because it wasn't engraved or anything.  
  
They got to one of the nicer little hotels--a Hilton, out of the Kitchen but honestly, what the fuck ever, Foggy just wanted to get into a warm, safe room with Matt and lie down and possibly eat. He checked in, his hands starting to shake from the adrenaline comedown, the hotel clerk glancing at Matt, who was hiding his face by kneeling next to Foggy.  
  
Foggy didn't have the energy to tell him to stand up, and besides, he was starting to wonder if the whole 'cringing slave' act in public was something worth trying to help Matt not do anymore. After all, it was Matt's utter submissiveness that had helped them with the cops. That, and Foggy's ability to lie on the spot, which seemed to be better than he had thought.  
  
He got them a room with a single double-bed, too frazzled to realize it until he opened the door to it. He sighed and Matt put the single large duffel down on the floor, carefully, and then Foggy walked over to the bed and lay flat, ready to sob or something.  
  
"Should I order food, Foggy?"  
  
Foggy turned his head to look at Matt, who had closed and locked the door and was kneeling at the floor next to the bed.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You sound hungry, Foggy, eating will make you feel better," and Foggy realized he was falling down if Matt thought he had to take care of Foggy after all that cop bullshit.  
  
Foggy sat up painfully and said, "Okay, and then, oh god that's still blood on your face, you're sure you're okay?"  
  
Matt nodded. "It's not my blood, Foggy, I'm fine, I didn't get injured."  
  
Foggy blinked. "Can you walk me through what happened tomorrow? And tell me what that asshole cop was saying? But right now, uh, you look like that's uncomfortable, why don't you, uh, shower?"  
  
Matt nodded and reached for the phone, and Foggy realized what he had forgotten to say. "No, no, that's okay, I got that, seriously that drying blood looks itchy."  
  
Matt nodded again and went to go shower. Foggy took several deep breaths and made himself order fries and two burgers with all the toppings, and a salad too because Matt seemed to like those, not explaining that it wasn't all for him. If he heard anyone asked with a politely baffled tone why he was wasting extra money on a slave like that he would actually lose it.  
  
Matt showered and came out, in a towel, and knelt back on the floor. Foggy fished out a pair of pajamas he'd packed and gave them to Matt, who was halfway through buttoning up the shirt when the room service came.   
  
Fortunately for both of them, Matt knelt immediately and paused, so it looked like he was getting _undressed_ for Foggy. The waiter person pushed the cart in, leered at Matt, and said in the doorway, "A good night to you, sir, I hope you are serviced well--"  
  
Foggy slammed the door in his face.  
  
Then Foggy said, "You're probably kinda hungry too," and Matt took the hint and sat on the floor next to Foggy in the chair, cross-legged, and ate.  
  
Foggy was too tired to feel his usual intense discomfort at Matt sitting lower than him like he belonged there. Matt was in no way Foggy's inferior.  
  
After four bites of the burger he couldn't eat any more and put it down instead.  
  
"Assholes," he muttered absently. "Fucking fuck those assholes. Asshole cop and asshole techs. _Fuck_. 'Oh noooo, your slaaaaave protected you, oh nooo you should have a firrrrmer haaaaand'. Fuck her."  
  
Matt added in-between bites, voice sounding genuinely offended, "I _am_ better trained than that."  
  
Foggy couldn't help it, he laughed at the absurdity and tragedy of the entire situation. "Yeah, Matt," he gasped out. "You probably are. Fuck."  
  
Something from that thing that Matt had sent him a while back flashed through his mind. _Praise actually does feel nice as long as it's not super condescending_.  
  
Matt probably felt just as scared and fucked-up as Foggy right now, more so, so Foggy went to the bag and pulled out the blanket, wrapping Matt in it once he was done eating.  
  
Matt's hands came up, holding it around himself, a small smile on his face. Foggy said, "Dude, I hope you know, you did a really good job, okay? Like I seriously couldn't have defended myself anywhere near that well. You aren't even hurt. That shit was fucking amazing," and he hugged Matt and broke one of his self-imposed guidelines and kissed him too.  
  
Thankfully Matt seemed to be okay with that, kissing Foggy back.   
  
"Thank you, Foggy," he said, wrapping the blanket tighter around himself. "I'm glad my skills are of use to you. I have always enjoyed the chance to protect my owners," and he reached out and kissed Foggy's right hand.  
  
Foggy didn't react to it, didn't let himself think about the picture Matt made.  
  
"Ugh, we should probably lie down, if not sleep," because Foggy didn't know if he'd ever be sleeping again, jesus fuck.  
  
Matt nodded and rose, then asked delicately, "Same bed, Foggy?"  
  
Foggy was too wrung-out to cry, though he wanted to at that question. "Yeah, come here, cuddle party," and he and Matt got under the covers, Matt still with the blanket holding him, a barrier between them.  
  
Foggy drifted off in a haze, thinking vaguely to himself, _I shouldn't've kissed Matt_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also taken from "The Telling" by Jeanann Verlee.


	22. as for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.

Matt lay in the bed, not letting himself sleep yet. He knew he had to catch at least two or so hours, but he didn't want to be unconscious for this part.  
  
Instead he lay there, enjoying his reward, turning it over and over in his head. Foggy had hugged him close, pulled him to cuddle in the bed, but it felt good now, not like Matt was racking up and higher and higher debt. It was a reward, not a mind game, this time.  
  
He shifted minutely, loving the blanket against his skin. It was very, very soft, and he'd earned this. He thought about it over and over again, turning Foggy's words over in his head like touching a coin. _You did a good job. I couldn't have defended myself anywhere near that well. That shit was fucking amazing._  
  
The kiss, too, was nice. Kissing was..not as nauseating as sex was most of the time. Matt had gotten to the point where sex didn't make him anywhere near queasy enough for it to show, but he still felt touches of it, like knots in embroidery thread. Kissing was better, sweeter. Foggy tasted of his food and he smelled like fear and sweat but not much else. It wasn't bad at all.  
  
Matt thought about the rewards--warm clothing after the cops had had him strip, he had been nervous but Foggy had _said_ , he had said _Pose however they tell you, okay? And don't interfere with them taking samples or whatever_ , and Matt had obeyed, and Foggy hadn't let them shock him. In fact, Foggy had been angry over how Matt had been touched. He thought about the female cop's words and dismissed them; his papers and his stamp and his bodyguarding and home-protecting training were all perfectly legitimate, and every single auction house and previous owner would verify that. None of them had had complains about his owner-defense skills.  
  
And now Matt had gotten food, including a salad, and a blanket, and a shower. He did hate the way the vitreous humor had started to smell on his hands, but in the shower he'd scrubbed over himself enough times that his skin tingled and he smelled like nothing else but hotel bodywash. They all smelled exactly the same, somehow, and not like their purported scents.   
  
Matt had gotten praise and earned touch and material good things. This was so straightforwardly a reward. What a relief.  
  
He had gotten use of his owner's bed, too, which was something Matt had missed since he had been given to Foggy. He had thought that maybe he'd be allowed to once they moved into the apartment, but it had two twin beds, not one large one, and Matt had resigned himself to not being good enough for Foggy.  
  
Matt thought about it more. Maybe he had been too harsh in his initial judgment of Foggy. After all, this weekend he'd been punished and gotten to kneel in public (not stand, knees weakening with fear) and rewarded for doing an actual important task, and Foggy had shown he could keep a cool head in a crisis.   
  
Things were getting better. It was clear then, to Matt, that what Foggy really had needed was a while to get used to Matt, and start to think of ways to use him. After all, the Nelsons hadn't had any slaves, so why would Foggy understand how to make him most useful?  
  
Matt resolved to gently help coax Foggy into more normal behavior. It wouldn't be too difficult, he didn't think. By Christmas he might even get a kneeling pad like a good, normal, well-used slave.  
  
He made plans then, starting with how to help Foggy be more comfortable in expressing his other facets of his sexuality. Perhaps Foggy would want to do the blanket-and-soup fantasy today, to unwind a little more. Matt could probably pretend to be cold-then-hot like a real fever, even shiver. He could mumble and seem more helpless, have limp limbs, huddle into pillows or blankets or the floor, and Matt could most certainly open his mouth and close it around spoonfuls of soup. He'd done it with semen, he could do it with Campbell's.  
  
And the other promising start seemed to be with the exercise fetish, too. Maybe Matt could ask Foggy if he could go to the gym? Or perhaps Matt could time his morning yoga a little differently, do it in front of Foggy? Matt could do a lot of things with that. What a great way to solve two problems at once: Matt should train more for more future situations like last night, and then Foggy would use him more acceptably.  
  
Owners' sexuality was always a thing that took a lot of teasing out. Matt thought to himself that he really was getting better at being Matt-for-Foggy, not just Matt in and of himself. It had been difficult at the beginning, he had floundered and been ignored for a very long time, and for Matt that was much, much worse than most other punishments, but for whatever reason Foggy had stopped punishing Matt for failing to anticipate and adapt to him once Matt had cried.  
  
What if Foggy liked Matt _crying_? Matt couldn't remember if he had been hard when that breakdown had happened. He could test it out again, maybe, if he had a good enough backup plan in place.   
  
Foggy started to shift and Matt realized he'd missed his window of sleep. Oh well. He could handle very minor sleep deprivation like that.  
  
Foggy yawned and said, "Matt, _Matt_ ," and Matt realized he was talking in his sleep, not waking up.  
  
"Foggy?" he whispered back, keeping his eyes shut.   
  
"Matt," and this was very clearly sleep-talking, "Matt, fuck, don't be scared," and Foggy turned over, smacked his lips, and said incoherently "The ducks aren't coming for you," and fell back into silent sleep.  
  
Matt lay there, puzzling it out. Obviously the ducks were just a dream, but if Foggy was worried for him, Matt would find ways to appease that. Reassure Foggy once he woke that Matt didn't mind the fight--had fucking loved it, in fact--and had calmed from from the police.   
  
Matt would not be an inconvenience. He refused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Anne Sexton's "For My Lover, Returning To His Wife", here: http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2001/09/13


	23. it’s the smiling tires me out the most

Foggy woke up feeling approximately ninety-nine percent better than he had last night, felt Matt in his arms, still cocooned in the blanket, and realized that he had kissed Matt.  
  
Oh _shit_.  
  
Foggy tried to think of ways to ask Matt if he liked it, if he cared, if Foggy owed him an apology, but none came to mind. How was he supposed to apologize to a guy who thought that Foggy had the right to do _whatever_ he wanted to him?   
  
Fuck, fuck, fuck, this was why Foggy had vowed to not kiss or grope or do anything to Matt that Matt didn't initiate. Fuck.  
  
Matt seemed to pick up on his panic, shifting awake slowly, murmuring, "Good morning, Foggy."  
  
Foggy swallowed a scream of _I didn't mean to_ and said back, "Good morning. How are you?"  
  
"Clean," Matt said, and Foggy didn't quite know what to make of that, "and warm, Foggy."  
  
Well, that was...some sort of coded message.   
  
Mat added, "Thank you for the blanket and food, Foggy," and his face looked genuinely happy at them. Foggy felt a little sick at the thanking him for food; of course he'd feed Matt, he would never starve him.   
  
Not deliberately, anyway.  
  
Foggy got up slowly and realized that he probably should get all the fear sweat off, and went to go shower.  
  
When he got back, dressing in the bathroom, brushing his teeth to get the acid stench out, Matt was completely in the same position he'd left him in. Foggy took a second to admire how cute Matt looked in the blanket, his face unguarded for once, mouth in a small smile. He almost wanted to take a picture and remind himself that Matt wasn't actually some strange suffering character in a play, but a real person.  
  
A real person Foggy needed to apologize to.  
  
Foggy took a deep breath and sat down near Matt. Matt's head tilted very slightly in the way that Foggy had realized meant that he was listening hard.  
  
"I'm sorry for kissing you," Foggy said. "I was, okay it's an excuse but I was tired and felt crazy and I still have a lot to do, fuck, I have to call my dad and tell him or else he will literally never let it go, but I seriously should not have kissed you, okay, and I'm sorry about that. I don't--I don't want to pressure you to do anything you don't want to do in any way. That's what I've been trying to say and maybe I should have just said it upfront. I don't want to pressure or coerce or do anything to you that you don't want done to you, okay, that's what I've been trying to tell you, Matt."  
  
Matt's face did something that was gone too fast for Foggy to interpret, and then Matt nodded very slightly.   
  
But then Matt licked his lips and said, gracefully somehow, "I don't mind being kissed, Foggy," and then he ducked his head and murmured quieter, "I like it."  
  
Oh, thank god. Foggy didn't know how to cope with the idea he had made Matt do things he didn't want to, hurt him with kissing, or oh fuck even worse, sex.  
  
"Okay," he said, relieved. "Thank fuck. But you can still tell me no, and I won't be offended or upset. Sometimes you just want everyone to fuck off, right?"  
  
Matt did not respond to that, eyes looking a little wild, then.  
  
He made himself take some deep breaths and focus on what they needed to do. Foggy was still unclear on what the hell Matt had done last night in terms of the fight.  
  
"So can you tell me what actually happened--what you did? I missed the police statement."  
  
Matt nodded and fluidly sat up. How the hell he made everything look pretty, Foggy didn't know.   
  
"I first noted the presence of three home invaders when I woke up to--"  
  
Matt hesitated just a fraction of a second, and smoothly continued, "To remind myself of necessary truths of life, and then I listened more and formulated a plan.   
  
"I could feel that the light in the kitchen was on, by the warmth, but not the other lights. I went out of the bedroom and grabbed your acne face wash, because it had the harshest chemicals for the easily avaliable toiletries that I could use as a weapon, and the shower chair, because it's heavy and metal and unlikely to bend.   
  
"Then I sensed the woman without a gun--she had only a knife--coming towards the bedroom, closest to you, and I surprised her by squirting the face wash in her face--I apologize, Foggy, for using it without permission--and then I hit her in the solar plexus to disable her long enough for me to hit her in the knees. Since I broke them both, and she fell to the ground and did not have any ranged weapons, I went to go get the others before I lost the element of surprise entirely.  
  
"I then turned off the kitchen light, as it was likely they were sighted and thus startled by and disoriented in the dark, and since the man had three guns and had the weight and height advantage on me, I went for him first. I pushed my thumbs into his eyes and wrenched that to throw him over the counter, and then I cinched the woman with the gun by her hair--"  
  
Foggy's jaw-dropped confusion escalated, and he made a noise, because then Matt clarified, "I held her by her hair and yanked her head onto my knee kicks. I cinched her four times and since I could hear her jaw and nose fracturing, I then moved to the man with one of the kitchen knives--I apologize for getting vitreous humor on it, Foggy--"  
  
Foggy made another noise of awestruck curiosity, and Matt quickly explained, "Vitreous humor is the substance in the eyeball that is between the lens and the retina in vertebrates, and it got on my thumbs when I pushed them into the man's eyes. I apologize, Foggy, I will clean them off if I am allowed--"  
  
Foggy refused to let Matt feel bad about any of this, because it was scaring him and turning him on and leaving him kind of in awe. "No, go on, what next?"  
  
"Then since the man on the floor was groaning and clutching his face, I held the knife to his throat, and I called to wake you up--I apologize for using commanding syntax, Foggy.   
  
"However, the woman with the gun then recovered enough to try to rush me, so I stabbed the man in the wrists to ensure that he would stay down and not try to get any of the guns, stood up and stepped on his throat with some weight so that I could press down and crush his esophagus if necessary, and I threw the knife.   
  
"I missed her jugular, but I did manage to snag her jaw, and the bone split out from the skin, I could smell it. I then threatened her to force her to stop what she was doing, and I believe that's when you came in?"  
  
Foggy blinked and shook himself. "So you straight-up took them down, without getting hurt at all, once?"  
  
Matt nodded.  
  
"Holy shit," he blurted out, "That's badass and terrifying and awesome, jesus, wow," and then because his body hated him, his mouth and vocal cords kept going, "and also kinda hot."  
  
Matt's face did something interesting at that. Foggy licked his lips and remembered that he had forgotten chapstick.  
  
"So, okay, what did the cop say to you?"  
  
Matt said, now sounding offended at her, "She informed me that my account of events was unbelievable because it was extremely improbable that a 'broke law school idiot' would own such a well-trained bodyguard slave, and accused me of augmenting my papers, and threatened me if any of the stamps or qualifications were revealed as illegitimate, that she and her colleagues would undoubtedly do _something_ horrible to me," and Matt rolled his eyes, like he couldn't bring himself to do something as undignified as be scared of rape and/or death threats.  
  
Foggy sat back, stunned. Then he said, amazed at how dumb he'd acted before, "I have _really_ misjudged you. You are fucking epic, Matt, you know that?" and he leaned forward to kiss Matt again.  
  
Matt's mouth kissed him back, but there was something not all there in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also taken from Margaret Atwood's "Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing".


	24. he said she said and though she never said it, she nodded

Matt was still stunned by the apology.  
  
It had never happened to him before, not like this. An owner had once or twice given him a nice reward the next morning, or an unearned treat, as a sort of apology if they did something while they were drunk or high, or if he had bled a lot.  
  
But an owner giving him a very explicit, deep apology like that? Matt didn't know what to make of it.  
  
He tried to analogize it to other situations, and the closest he could think of was how he and Mistress Sharon's pet had apologized to each other sometimes without prompting--mostly by nuzzling the other one's foot with their cheek, or by a little touch. Mistress Sharon's pet was not to be talked to, Mistress Sharon had ordered Matt, so instead of words, they had communicated other ways.  
  
Matt had sometimes been apologized to by other slaves as well, usually if they had made some mistake that he had been punished for. But the more he tried to puzzle it out, the more fear clenched and coalesced into a lead weight in his stomach.   
  
Foggy really, truly, deeply believed that it was wrong for Matt to not like the sex they had, and apparently this extended to kissing.  
  
Thankfully Matt had managed to convince Foggy that he enjoyed the kissing, which wasn't actually a lie. Kisses were pleasant if they didn't have too much saliva or teeth and were earned.  
  
Matt breathed in and out slowly, listening to Foggy as he hastily went to go call his parents, formulating a plan. Foggy had seemed to like Matt enjoying the blanket, and he had definitely been aroused by Matt's recounting of the defense he'd mounted--and how well he'd performed.  
  
Well, it did make sense--if Foggy liked Matt to pretend-dominate him, he would enjoy reminders of how strong physically Matt was. He thought and thought and managed to come up with a way to ask Foggy for permission to train at a gym and coax--or seduce, really--Foggy into indulging whatever it was that would satisfy his exercise-slash-violence fetish.  
  
Maybe Foggy would want to touch Matt's muscles, or have him do more exercises shirtless or naked, or have Matt flex, or make him stay in stress positions, praising him for long he was still and strong and untrembling?  
  
Matt could do all that. Now that he was starting to properly understand Foggy, like figuring out every ingredient in a mixed drink, sip by sip, he could do so much _more_ for him. Matt hated being wasteful and useless.  
  
Foggy paced the room, exasperatedly telling his parents that no, no, everything was fine, they need not show up this week or even tomorrow, no Anna I'm not hurt, nobody got hurt, Matt took care of it before anyone had a chance to hurt me, oh my God Dad I will see you all this weekend anyway for Candace's birthday, hey Candace, yes I'm fine, everyone can stop worrying now, and then he hung up.  
  
He paced even more, and Matt shifted a little on the bed, hoping to catch his eye.  
  
"Matt?"  
  
His opening, then. Matt made sure his eyes looked half-lidded, his body in a pleasantly revealing position, the blanket just tickling the beginnings of the hairs that led from his navel to his cock. "Foggy, I want to ask you permission for something," he said, and let his tongue touch his lips and ask softly, with that little bit of pleading to sweeten the waters, "May I please train more often, for future situations that may arise in the future?"  
  
Foggy seemed...a little taken off guard, but then his face curled into a smile, Matt heard it, and then he said brightly, "Yeah, Matt, of course, whatever the closest gym is I'll get you a membership or whatever, remind me to look that up later."  
  
Matt noted that down and smiled gratefully. "Thank you, Foggy," he said.  
  
Foggy smelled more aroused, then the air around his face heated, and Matt realized his owner was _blushing_.   
  
How strangely, bizarrely adorable and yet terrifying--emotionally insecure owners were more violent, but it was...cute. Was Foggy _shy_?  
  
Matt resolved to be even more submissive, yet gently confident, help Foggy overcome whatever shyness he felt to use Matt properly as he was made to be used. If his owner was happy, Matt could be happy, and right then and there that was all he wanted.  
  
Foggy then blurted abruptly, "Hey, um, you should totally get dressed too," and Matt rose to gracefully obey.  
  
As he smoothly stripped, only a little teasing, remembering the specifics of how to take off shirt, pants, socks while showing skin in the right ways ( _You want to hint at nakedness, half-disguise it so as it highlight it, make them want to rip you open_ , his trainer's voice echoing), he made sure to not hide his small smile at how much better everything was now that certain important things had happened.  
  
His first proper punishment, his first proper important task, his first real, earned reward. It was almost like Foggy hadn't really been his owner, his legitimate owner, before this weekend.  
  
Well now that he was, Matt pushed away the philosophical question and began puzzling at long-term strategies as he awaited his next order. Devyn was still a problem, and Matt might have to work so very hard to get forbidden from interacting with him, but it would be worth it, whatever Foggy wanted.  
  
Matt dressed himself, his now-soothing mask-for-Foggy altered to fit better, the hem taken in, and pulled on last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Jeanann Verlee's 'The Believer', here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/112064125943/the-believer


	25. a fish hook. an open eye.

Foggy realized around lunchtime that he and Matt had been studying and had completely forgotten eat breakfast, which was possibly why he kept reading the same sentence over and over again.

Well, that was an easily fixable problem. They could get more room service, and then go back to the apartment after food. That was fine. Foggy could deal with the bloodstains, probably, now that he was really, truly convinced that Matt and him were okay.

And Matt seemed to be coming more out of his shell now, which was great. Foggy hadn't ever actually _liked_ Matt seeming distressed, but as time went on and he started to get tiny glimpses of what kind of a person Matt really was, he hated it even more. He just wanted to give Matt the world.

Oh, fuck. The last time he had thought that was about his childhood girlfriend.

Oh, oh _fuck_.

Foggy's eyes went huge as he realized with a horrified gasp that he was starting to _fall in love with Matt_.

No, no, no that would be--no, he couldn't, that would be horrible for Matt, jesus christ, that was just--it was out of bounds, it was wrong--

Was it?

Foggy forced himself to calm down a bit more and think. Was he more or less likely to hurt Matt now that he was falling in love with him?

Well, considering that Matt was much calmer and offered more opinions lately, maybe he was actually _less likely_ to hurt Matt now. But all the same, Foggy knew he had to be careful. This wasn't like a normal relationship. Matt couldn't break up or dump him or walk away. Matt had no real escape routes. Matt had no legal rights, and if Foggy let himself get jealous or petty or cruel with heartbreak, nobody would protect Matt.

Jesus Christ. So Foggy would have to monitor himself closely, and compromise even more. He'd have to try to equalize things as much as possible, and _not_ put any pressure on Matt to fall in love back. He would have to be watchful as shit, and make sure things didn't get out of hand.

And, maybe...it was a horrible thought, but maybe Foggy could find some back-up person in his family that could help 'rent' Matt out from him to do laundry or something, if Matt needed space away from him that Foggy couldn't give him.

And Foggy would have to find someone to talk about this with. Anna, definitely. His dad, as much as Foggy loved him, was actually completely shit at romantic matters. After all, he'd gotten married to, had a kid with, and divorced Rosalind in the space of eighteen months, most of which he spent in a drugged haze.

(Dad was very ashamed of his past, but he didn't sugarcoat it for Anna, which was how Foggy and Candace found out, listening to them in the closet under the stairs to their bedroom.)

And when he and Anna had been dating, Dad had floundered there too, trying to tell her basic things--I like you, I care about you, I could fall in love with you--and utterly fucking it up. There were mountains of stories of how much his dad was terrible at romance.

Come to think of it, Foggy had done something pretty similar with Matt--the whole 'letting Matt take charge' the first time during sex sounded an awful lot like how Dad had never kissed Anna first until they were married ten years.

Foggy chewed his lip. He needed to see if Matt had liked the way that they'd had sex those couple of times, or what Matt's triggers were, so he didn't trip them up or hurt him. After all the shit Matt had gone through, he deserved so, so much better than that.

\--

Matt had come up with two possible things to delicately try to refuse to satisfy Foggy's moral axiom of enthusiastic consent by the time he had finished studying. Multitasking came easily to him; his senses demanded it in order to make sense of the world.

First, he might be able to gently push away a blowjob. He didn't like them at all, not with Foggy's lack of technique and his lack of earning any orgasms anyway, and he could stammer out or hint at some form of teeth-based incident if necessary.

Matt didn't even understand how it was that Foggy wanted to give him one in the first place, but then again, he didn't understand how it was that anyone liked sex at all, given how the very best sex Matt had had was like washing dishes: you did it for the end result, the sensation of satisfaction at having completed an important task.

Second, and this was one was a risk but it might really be worth taking it, he could ask (or nudge at, or let the mask take) for permission to wait at least an hour before having sex in the morning. Sex on an empty stomach was genuinely more painful than otherwise and he didn't like the low-level anxiety from being mussed and improperly-prepared-looking. Matt preferred time to make sure he was first presentable, at the very minimum.

He was both reading the Torts introductory text with his hands and chewing on the inside of his cheek absently, trying to figure out a third viable thing, when Foggy gasped.

Matt's head whipped around and he listened hard, thoughts of Torts banished. Foggy sounded surprised and not exactly happy, but then without saying anything, his breathing calmed down and he seemed to go back to normal, and then Foggy stood up abruptly.

"Did you--let's get some lunch, I'm starving."

Matt pointedly did _not_ twitch with annoyance at that. Starving was being chained to a bed for so long you tried to eat the chain. Starving was only five blueberries a day for two weeks. Foggy did not know what it meant to starve, just as all those irritating free people who talked about justice and oppression in their law classes didn't have any clue what oppression was.

Matt nodded.

"What do you want?"

Matt blinked--choose a thing an owner isn't disgusted by but will let you eat, the simplest solution--and said, quietly, "Could I maybe have another one of those salads, Foggy?"

"Yeah, no problem," and Foggy got that and one for himself too.

The salad was crunchy and delicious, with walnuts and flaked almonds and sunflower seeds, raddichio and carrot and neatly halved cherry tomatoes. The vinagrette was also good, and Matt shivered with pleasure as he ate. The memory of hunger made food that much better.

He vowed to tonight try sex again with Foggy, after reminding him of the gym, and to say _I'd rather not_ or hunch over or pretend to be much more untrained and distressed or very noticeably flinch at _something_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Margaret Atwood's 'You Fit Into Me', here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/123133810522/warning-disturbing-violent-imagery


	26. exploited, they’d say. yes, any way you cut it, but I’ve a choice of how

Matt ate like more pornographically than other people had sex, Foggy thought to himself as he himself munched down. It was like every single thing that he did was designed to make Foggy's dick and life as hard as possible.  
  
But then they got their things and were heading out to get home, and that's when Foggy noticed Matt wasn't wearing any shoes.  
  
"Hey, where did your shoes go?" he said, frowning, looking under the beds. Did they get kicked off in there? That didn't _sound_ like Matt...  
  
Matt answered, "You didn't give me any shoes, Foggy."  
  
And then Foggy stood up, a low jolt of fear in his spine. He hadn't...but hadn't he?  
  
He looked at Matt's feet, and then he thought about how it had been rainy enough for the streets to shine with slick last night, and how cold and wet were Matt's feet?  
  
"I--dude, fuck, okay no," because that was completely unacceptable, Foggy _knew_ he wasn't responsible enough for a fucking cat, much less Matt, he hated that he kept fucking everything up, "Okay, in the future, if we're ever going anywhere, make sure you have shoes, and, and," and now he was being bombarded by images of Matt dead from allergic reaction or starvation or something, "And, like, that applies to everything--if something's going to be unpleasant or hurt you or something and I didn't notice, just tell me, okay? Or even if you just don't like what music I put on or would rather not be dragged to the Nelson Clan Events or something, seriously, I never meant to make you walk around at night with wet socks."  
  
Matt chewed on his lip for a second, and Foggy saw a flash of blood on his tongue, crimson against pink and his dick twitched with interest, and then Matt said, "Of course, Foggy, I'll remind you."  
  
Good. Good. At least that was taken care of.  
  
"Shit, though, you need shoes," Foggy said, thinking. Did cabs have a shirt-shoes-service policy? This was kind of out of the way.  
  
"Of course, Foggy," but now Foggy thinks maybe Matt disagrees with him, so he asks, "Wait, but do _you_ think you need shoes?"  
  
\--  
  
Matt's torn--on the one hand, the proper answer would be _of course, (owner's title here), you decide what I need and do not need, please punish me how you see fit for my insolence in implying you did not_ but on the other hand, the mask wouldn't say that and Foggy wants the mask, not him--so Matt throws the dice and says, carefully, "Many slaves do not wear shoes quite yet at this time of year, and it will take only about fifteen minutes total of walking on the ground itself outside."  
  
He waits, tense, but then Foggy nods and takes the answer, and Matt notes that sometimes giving a different spin on an owner-reassurance slash affirmation of dominance was appreciated.  
  
They go home without much trouble--one of the cab drivers grumbles that he doesn't want a fucking lobot in his cab, and Foggy fumes for a minute but when Matt displays no reaction (as he shouldn't, the cab driver is not someone whose opinion his owner shares), he calms.  
  
They get home and then Foggy stands over the bloodstains, frowning, saying, "Shit, how am I gonna clean this?"  
  
Matt blinks. Why would--was he going to be punished or used so severely he couldn't clean the floors? But, no, instead Matt offered up, "I can clean out bloodstains without any residue, Foggy," hoping Foggy would take the bait.  
  
"You're sure, Matt?"  
  
Of course he was sure, cleaning wasn't _that_ difficult, not compared to Russian poetry or physics. Physics was very, very annoying, because at first you thought it would be easy from how much calculus was involved and calculus was like kneeling on a cushion, it was ridiculously, pleasantly simple, but instead physics required a certain intuition or innate understanding of itself, and Matt simply didn't possess it, so it was difficult. He'd slogged through the class for his degree by bruteforcing the numbers and memorizing hundreds of facts, but he didn't like it.  
  
Matt realized he'd convinced Foggy and was now cleaning the floor. If he was spacing out like that _involuntarily_ then he really needed to help his brain stay in shape. He resolved to kneel on the floor or some hard object, and remind himself of the truths that night.  
  
\--  
  
After dinner, Matt quietly reminded Foggy to look up the closest gyms in the area, and Foggy did. He wrote it down to tell Matt about tomorrow; they weren't open on Sunday at this time of day, anyway, from what he could tell by Yelp.  
  
Then Matt kissed him. It wasn't a normal kiss, it was some kind of swooning movie-star kiss that made Foggy's knees weak, and Foggy kissed back. God, Matt had been pretty into it, he thought, the other times, but this was like a whole new animal, Matt was so much more active.  
  
Foggy reached up through the kissing to tug on Matt's collar, to take it off, and Matt went frozen like a deer who had spotted a car, his eyes huge and terrified.  
  
"Matt?" he asked, not quite sure what was wrong. Surely if Foggy gave him permission to take it off, it wasn't the same thing that had freaked out Matt so badly?  
  
Matt said, voice like broken glass, "I--I d-don't like that, Foggy."  
  
Oh. _Oh_. Oh, hell. Foggy dropped his hand then, and didn't think about why Matt didn't like it. "Okay," he said, and kissed Matt to try to reassure him. "Then I'll just not touch it at all."  
  
As Matt kissed him and reached down under his jeans to jerk him off, Foggy wondered vaguely if there had been some kind of weird choking trauma in the past, or if Matt's torturers had played some kind of mind game with him, telling him to take off the collar and beating him for doing it, or for not.  
  
But Matt's fingers were so skillful around his dick, that Foggy moaned and forgot all about it. "Shit, shit, Matt," he said. "Shit, that feels good," and he came pretty quickly.  
  
Foggy moved to return the favor, and Matt's eyes kept tight shut while Foggy blew him.  
  
\--  
  
_Ten seconds, ten seconds_ , Matt chanted in his head, summoning Summer's voice, holding down his broken fingers. _Anything can endure anything for ten seconds._  
  
_Count down from ten while I do this,_ and her twisting them too, the bone breaking skin.  
  
_Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one,_ and then Matt breathed as Foggy kept putting his disgusting mouth on him, and started it up again in German, then Russian, then French, then Spanish, then Japanese, and then Greek, all the while using the muscles trick to ejaculate as fast as possible and get it over with, and halfway through counting down from ten in Farsi his cock finally came and softened.  
  
Thank God. He couldn't refuse two things in a night, and he hated the blowjob and how wrong it felt, but in retrospect he would have chosen to not have the collar off over not having to pretend to enjoy that parody of using a slave, because with the collar off he probably couldn't pretend to enjoy anything just yet.  
  
Foggy kissed him and he kissed back, and Foggy went to bed.  
  
Matt did as well, but waited, faking a doze. Once Foggy was asleep enough, he slipped out, found a small package of bobby pins, and pushed them partially upright in-between the bleach-and-baking-soda-and-coca-cola-smelling linoleum tiles in the kitchen, and he stripped and knelt on the hard, icy floor, his hands resting on the pins' capped heads.  
  
It would hurt and not show any damage.  
  
He closed his eyes and picked a mantra. He could choose from so many, but he'd forgotten lately the most the utility of pain, why it was good for slaves, so he chose _All pain is a lesson, and all lessons can make me better_ as he ached.  
  
He whispered it out loud, and his senses began to prickle and hurt as he went along, focusing on just the collar (tightened extra so he could really _feel_ it like he ought to, like he needed to, like some humiliatingly poorly trained baby slave) and then just on the nakedness and then just on the heat and hurt in his knees and hands, all of which were their own forms of pain.  
  
_All pain is a lesson, and all lessons make you better_ and he remembered every bit of pain, whips and nail polish in his wounds and Mistress Sharon slapping him in the face and then sitting on it and Master Pendergrass snapping his tibia and femur and Summer twisting his broken fingers so he could experience a compound fracture in the safety of their home and Winter not letting him sleep until they extended his period of functioning from sleep deprivation to at least past three measly days and being choked with a belt and terrified of brain damage and Master Robert pushing a wine bottle inside of him, even with the gallons of lube he used it hurt, and hearing Charlotte die and every other piece of pain.  
  
He felt it and he felt it and he felt it until it turned sweet.  
  
The pain of this hurt more and more, the ache building, but as Matt whispered the truths so quiet only he could hear, the pain eventually crested, the curdling chemicals in his blood and brain became endorphins, and Matt remembered another truth, that punishment became reward, that pain became its own pleasure, the ourboros of being a slave, the way that everything ate itself.  
  
He felt low pulsing hot bliss from his aching knees, and a sweet comforting hug from the collar, and bright sparks of rustling agony from his hands and smiled, and said only seven more times aloud, “All pain is a lesson and all lessons can make me better,” because that was what he needed then.  
  
And if his owner wanted him to take care of it alone he would, and then he got up, put away the bobby pins, ate three strawberries, _you must ensure that your brain stays rewired to enjoy obedience_ , savoring every bite, and slipped into his own bed, silent as a shadow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also taken from Margaret Atwood's "Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing".


	27. milk teeth

The rest of the week seemed to go pretty well to Foggy.  
  
Matt threw himself into law school with a kind of fury that surprised him; Matt had not seemed enthusiastic or even particularly willing to actually go, but now that he was here, he _worked_ like his life depended on it.  
  
Then again, Foggy mused darkly, he might think his life really _did_ depend on it.  
  
Foggy himself buckled down and focused, and pretty soon it was Friday, and Foggy was going to guide Matt over to that German class he didn't have with Foggy. He knew Matt could get there just fine, but he had a nagging feeling that something was wrong with that class, and he knew that if there was, Matt wouldn't just tell him because he'd think it would piss Foggy off or something.  
  
He took a deep breath as he stopped and Matt went inside, and one of the other people in there caught his eye.  
  
A guy with a septum ring and brightly dyed green and yellow hair, trying to talk to Matt, who looked like he'd rather walk into traffic.  
  
Fuck, was some asshole harassing Matt? Or worse, raping him?  
  
Foggy's hands clenched into fists. He'd already failed Matt in so many ways, he wouldn't fail to protect or help him out in this. He would skip class, or leave early, or something, and wait to see what this guy did to Matt when he wasn't around.  
  
As it turned out, it was 'relentlessly hit on Matt while Matt tried to edge himself out of the conversation'. Matt looked like one of those deer around a very large wolf, knowing that if it ran all it would do was get the wolf excited, and absolutely unable to fight back.  
  
\--  
  
"We need to strategize about this," Foggy said firmly, in the tiny study room he and Matt were seated in. "I think we should come up with a backup plan for dealing with this asshole, because sometimes they don't just go away on their own."  
  
Matt looked nervous as hell, chewing on his lip. He'd already apologized for 'inconveniencing Foggy' and asked to please be punished in any way Foggy saw fit, to which Foggy had replied that it was not his fault this guy--Devyn, apparently, which was a douchey name if he ever heard one--was hitting on him.  
  
Now Matt looked still like a dog expecting a kick, but then he took a deep breath and said, softly, "I believe I have something that _may_ work, Foggy."  
  
"Let's hear it," said Foggy, who in the waiting period had pulled up a google doc and titled it 'how to get this motherfucker away from Matt'.   
  
"If you were to give me the privilege of not being allowed to speak to him, it might bore him sufficiently for him to stop, Foggy," Matt said, and then more twitchily, "Of course, I understand that I have not yet earned that privilege--"  
  
Foggy couldn't let him go on. "What are you talking about? I--look, Matt, it's like getting you a collar, if you need it then I'll try to help you get it, even if it's something _I_ don't like. You have rights as a person."  
  
Matt's face twitched again, and that incredibly fleeting look of disbelief surfaced and fell back under without a splash. "Thank you, Foggy," he murmured.  
  
"It's not--you don't have to thank me for not being a complete asshole to you all the time," because Foggy _had_ accidentally been an asshole to Matt over the whole 'not giving him shoes' thing, and in retrospect trying his damndest to ignore Matt because he was uncomfortable around him to the point where Matt had a crying breakdown was very, very cruel. Foggy vowed to do nothing like it again.  
  
Matt looked like he had no idea what scripted answer to give to that, so Foggy wrote down Matt's suggestion, feeling sick but pushing through it, 'possibly order matt to not talk to him???'.  
  
Matt licked his lips and looked like he wanted to say something and wasn't going to, so Foggy prompted him gently, "Yeah, Matt?"  
  
"I--if you were to order me to not speak to him, if I were to earn the privilege, I--it might be a good idea to also have written proof of such orders, as your reputation is rather liberal and otherwise it may not be believed."  
  
Was it just Foggy's imagination, or did Matt sound faintly disapproving of Foggy being 'rather liberal'? He shook it off and wrote that down as well.  
  
"Okay, we could also try rational conversation like adults first," he said, and put it at the top of the list, and then sat back and thought. "Any other suggestions? The more back-up plans, the better, I know this shit from when Candace was getting harassed in high school."  
  
Matt looked indecisive again, and Foggy wondered out loud, "Would the professor care, can we take it to the administration, or campus--no, we can't go to the cops, that's a stupid idea," because if the way that those fucking piece of shit cops and techs had treated Matt for defending Foggy and his home was any normal thing for them, cops were _absolute fuckheads_ who could not be trusted with his safety.  
  
But Matt said, "I believe Dr Qasim may intervene, Foggy, if we phrase it correctly. She is very...she disapproves strongly of any perceived mistreatment of slaves, enough to eject multiple students from the class."  
  
"Seriously?" Foggy asked, a grin spreading over his face. He loved it when there were decent people on their side.  
  
"She has so far permanently banned five students from taking this class or any class taught by her ever again for what he thinks of as discrimination against slaves, and two for other forms of discrimination."  
  
Foggy sucked his teeth. Damn, that was harsh, but it sounded like she was at least effective. "She sounds like a good go-to person if this all gets any worse, or any more serious."   
  
Foggy thought about it more, and then told Matt, "Any by any more serious, I mean touching you, trying to get you in a locked room alone, doing anything even creepier--anything, seriously, he had this look on his face like you were his lady and he was a medieval knight straight out of _The Art of Courtly Love_ , it was creepy."  
  
Matt's face twitched in contempt. "I will not allow him to damage, harm, steal or otherwise use your property, Foggy," he said, sounding offended a the thought.  
  
Foggy breathed out slowly. God, Matt was like one of those house-elves that refused to be freed in the _Harry Potter_ books. It was frustrating, but at least he didn't think this asshole's behaviour was acceptable, either.  
  
"Oh, shit," he said as his phone rang. "We have to go if we're going to not be late to Candace's party, and she will go _off_ on us if we are," and they hurried out.  
  
\--  
  
Matt sat in the cab with Foggy on the way to his sister's birthday party, trying to distract himself from worrying about the what-ifs.   
  
(What if Foggy punished him or didn't ever allow him to not speak to Devyn any more, what if Foggy lent him to his sister, what if the baby was there again and Matt took off his collar again, what if it all went wrong and Matt was confined the apartment all day, after the taste of law school he would be so starved intellectually by comparison...)  
  
Matt focused on calming down by alternating making plans for them (if the baby was there and he was expected to take care of it, he would refrain from taking off his collar, it was a simple enough task, he ought to be able to do it, if Foggy lent him to his sister then he would perform well for her) and by thinking about what he'd learned about Barely Legal on Monday when they'd talked.  
  
It'd studied him and tapped out, [You seem happier.]  
  
[I've got my owner's sexual tastes better mapped out.]  
  
A nod. [It makes life easier.]  
  
[Yes. What we wants is a lot, and a very tiring performance, but now that I improvised a bit, it's easier to fake the rest.]  
  
[He wants you to play out one of those weird collar-ripper romance books?]  
  
[What?]  
  
[Like _The Lady and her Master_ , the ones where the slave finds happiness and freedom in being owned by their owner and comes to choose him or her over being free? Similar to _Fifty Shades of Grey_ , except she's free until the last part of the first book, where she finds out she likes playing a slave so much that she actually surrenders herself into it and is bought by the asshole who manipulated her?]  
  
Now that sounded intriguing. Matt would have to read it now. He'd love to see how they could possibly make surrendering yourself into slavery sound romantic.  
  
[Not quite. He likes me to pretend I'm one of those slaves in the slaves-dominating-their-owners stories.]  
  
[The ones banned in thirteen states for obscenity?]  
  
[Yes.]  
  
[Wow, he's a pervert. Good luck.]  
  
[Thanks.]  
  
[Now you look gloomy. Did you want to hear how I lost my tongue?]  
  
[I would be amenable.]  
  
[You're such a snob. Anyway, I was in training at the center, and in my first week I'd already gotten a reputation for being hard to make do anything, so they brought in this bigshot guy, Trainer Max Hardcore. You ever heard of him?]  
  
[No.]  
  
[It's probably because I ruined his career. Anyway, he had all these theories that the best way to break a slave in was by forcing them to suck dicks until they choked and puked and cried. So he had me restrained on a table, in front of everyone, and shoved it in, holding my nose shut, and of course I was starting to pass out. But my jaw can unhinge really wide, and I was panicking enough to forget the smart strategy of pretending to break, so I unhinged my jaw and bit down as hard as I could.]  
  
Matt's hands flew up to his mouth, his eyes widening. [You didn't!]  
  
[I did. It came OFF in my mouth,] it tapped the word 'off' louder.  
  
Matt laughed at that in unison with it, doubled over, scandalized despite himself and yet possessed by how irresistibly funny that was.  
  
[They decided to cut out my tongue for that because clearly I wouldn't ever be trainable enough for it to be useful to owners anyway.]  
  
Matt shook his head, still laughing. God, that was one of the craziest things he'd ever heard. It was a story that would haunt him and make him laugh for no outside reason for the rest of his life.  
  
[Oh fuck,] he tapped back. But then-- [Why do you have teeth then? Didn't they knock those out too?]  
  
[Yeah, but they were milk teeth.]  
  
Matt pulled himself out of amused nostalgia, and followed Foggy up to the party, the story having soothed him enough to merely feel tense with anticipation, not frozen.


	28. but why is desire suffering?

Foggy's glad he remembered to grab Candace's present from upstairs as he gets to their parent's home and rings the doorbell.  
  
Candace has been taking a gap year for mental health reasons, and Foggy saw her present by pure chance, so he's bouncing on his heels. He wants to see her face when she opens it. Candace deserves to have some extra joy in her life.  
  
Judging by the press of warm bodies as Foggy's Aunt Tinta opens the door and shouts, " _Foggy_ , and your _friend_ , Matt the hero!" and they go in.  
  
Matt looks baffled as Foggy's various relatives all start greeting him and Foggy as "Foggy, my favorite nephew and his friend the hero!", offering to take their coats. One of Foggy's sterner aunts takes Candace's present to the table, and another of them emerges from the shove of warm bodies.  
  
"Hey, she really liked you last time, hold her again," and it's his Aunt Jillian, who's been having a hard time being a suddenly single mother after her husband divorced her when she was eight months pregnant, handing Isayeah to Matt.  
  
Matt's face went from politely confused to soft and adoring as he held her carefully, his lips softening and murmuring something in German to Foggy's youngest cousin, who cooed and squealed happily. He said, eyes lowered, "Thank you ma'am," sounding for all the world like she'd done something amazing for him.  
  
Foggy's heart melted inside his chest at how sweet and cherishing Matt looked, and then Aunt Jillian said, cheerfully, "Okay, both of you, come into the kitchen, your mother wants to give your friend something."  
  
It's both nice and awkward, but it appears there's a family consensus that Matt is no longer to be ignored as an elephant in the room, but to be addressed as Foggy's friend. Nobody objects when Matt's so focused on the baby that he barely has time to get out a "Hello, sir" or "Hello, ma'am" to every single relative, including the baby cousins who grab at Foggy's hands and implore him to come play.  
  
Foggy has to tell them that their Aunt Anna wants Foggy in the kitchen, and most of them groan in disappointment, but one, his new cousin Avril, says, "Then can your friend Matt come play with us?"  
  
Matt looked like he wouldn't object, but if Anna wanted to talk to both of them and give Matt something then Foggy was not going to get derailed, so he told them, "Maybe after your Aunt Anna's talked to us," and gently guides him along as best he can with Matt's arms full.  
  
Matt talked to the baby in more soft German the entire way there, picking and maneuvering himself carefully, bending his back and body over Isayeah, making sure nothing bumped her.  
  
Foggy realized suddenly that maybe he could talk to Aunt Jillian and get some sort of part-time nannying-renting thing for her and Matt, since Matt was so good at it and looked unreservedly happy.  
  
They played floor tetris all the way to the kitchen, where Anna immediately hugged Foggy, followed by Dad and then Candace.  
  
"Where's Matt?" she shouts, and Matt comes forward awkwardly.  
  
"Here, ma'am."  
  
"Nothing like that," Anna says, and then, "You saved my son, you made sure he was safe, you can call me Anna like any other friend of Foggy's, you got that?" and she kisses his cheeks, and hands him a gift bag. "This is for you, for proving wrong our first impressions. You really are a lovely person."  
  
Matt seems stunned silent as Dad also claps him on the back and says, "Good job protecting my son."  
  
Candace comes forward too, wearing a periwinkle dress with sewn-in bits of embroidery on the edges that look like ivy, and says to Matt, "We are all really glad that you kept Foggy safe. I don't know what I would do without my big brother," and she gives him a side hug, mindful of the baby.  
  
Matt says, voice full of some emotion, "Thank you so much, ma--Anna, and ma'am and sir," and then Candace and Dad _both_ tell Matt to call them by their names too.  
  
Foggy feels suddenly so much better about possibly keeping Matt around as long as Matt wanted to stay there. It had been so awkward and weird before, but now that the ice's broken, it wouldn't be horrible at all to have Matt live with him there.  
  
Foggy tears up a bit. He's just suddenly so glad he has a real family who he didn't have to properly protect Matt from.  
  
"You seem pretty good with her," Dad says to Matt.  
  
"Thank you, Edward," he murmurs, adjusting his grip minutely. Isayeah makes a confused noise and grabs at his face. He tells her something in German and she cooes back.  
  
"Anyway," Candace says. "Dinner's a free-for-all, and then cake's in half an hour, and after cake is presents, and then the baby cousins will be evacuated back by seven thirty."  
  
Foggy nods. "Okay, Matt, let's--actually, do you want to sit in the living room and let me grab you food? I don't think you can really hold a plate and Isayeah."  
  
Matt says, shifting Isayeah to sit on his hip, "I could, Foggy."  
  
Just then Avril shouts something about snow leopards from the living room, and Foggy shrugs and says, "Or maybe somewhere else."  
  
"Aunt Tinta and Uncle Yancy are in the front room," Candace says. It's actually part of the stockroom when it's not a party occasion. "There's at least two seats there open."  
  
"Thanks, Candycane," Foggy says, and hugs her and Anna and Dad, and then tells Matt, "Let me show you the way there, it's a madhouse, and then we should totally eat, my stomach is like Chewbacca down here."  
  
Matt follows and when Foggy doesn't have to actually order him into the chair, he's curious enough to tilt his head.  
  
Matt explains, "Sitting on the floor would put her--the baby's--head too low down. Easier to hit," and he cradles her head safely against his chest.  
  
Foggy feels full of affection, and goes and gets them both food.  
  
Matt doesn't eat a whole ton, but he keeps up a steady conversation with Isayeah the whole time, appearing to actually listen to her cooing and occasional shrieks.  
  
"Doch," he says at one point after a shriek. "Doch, Sie _sind_ das Beste," and rocks her in the chair.  
  
Aunt Tinta and Uncle Yancy and a couple other uncles and aunts all are in their fifteen conversations, but every now and then one flashes Matt a smile and looks at Foggy.  
  
It's actually fun. And when the cake comes around, Matt gets a slice of cheesecake too, and he seems to actually like it as he eats it.  
  
Foggy fights his way back to the main room as Candace opens her presents, and so he gets to see her open up his present and scream with delight.  
  
It's a complete set of all the _Sandman_ books in fancy binding.  
  
"FOGGY," she howls over the din of everyone else oooh'ing over it, "YOU ARE THE BEST BIG BROTHER _EVER_!"  
  
She says it every year, but still, it's the greatest.  
  
Foggy gets Matt when it's time to go because he really can't stay any longer or he'll end up sleeping here like his too-drunk-to-drive relatives, and finds Aunt Jillian taking a picture of Matt and Isayeah.  
  
She's sleeping on his chest, her face against his 'Columbia Law' shirt.  
  
Foggy suddenly feels like he's been struck by lightning. What he wants now more than ever is for Matt to have everything, to get to have his own kids and cottage somwhere and a law degree and all the cheesecakes on the earth, a whole strawberry farm of his own. To never look like he's resigned himself to the fact that he's going to be hurt again.  
  
But for now, Foggy concentrates on what he can do, so after he and Matt get home, he tells Matt that he should totally have some strawberries while Foggy has an apple and they study some more.  
  
Matt's smile at each bite makes the tiny flush of guilt from the order fade away.  
  
And then before they sleep, Foggy remembers the gift bag, and tells Matt to get it out, and it's a sweater.  
  
"It's really dark gray," he tells Matt, who's feeling it and its braided cables all over. "It looks pretty good on you, dude. And it matches everything, so you could wear it all winter if you wanted."  
  
Matt looks like he does every now and then when Foggy gets up in the middle of the night from his (treated) sleep disorder. Peaceful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Molly Peacock's "Why I Am Not A Buddhist", here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/53411629811/molly-peacock-why-i-am-not-a-buddhist


	29. and what  in the hell is everybody being reasonable about

Foggy says the next morning, "Hey, Matt, I forgot to tell you, but the nearest gym is Fogwell's, did you want to go over there today or--?"

Matt blinks and puts down his fork. Foggy wasn't lying, that much was clear. But. Fogwell's.

His mouth opens and the mask says, "That would be great, thanks Foggy," as his mind starts to curl up in a very small ball and muffle screams.

Fogwell's. Where he used to sit. With his dad.

His dad, who is dead.

He says, thinking like molasses, "Foggy, I think--could I please go on my own?" and he's ready to beg, to do anything, because he can't quite go into Fogwell's _with_ an owner.

He could if it was that or die, that or be whipped. Maybe. But the idea made him think about wanting to die, the way he had in the open market under the summer sun, roasting slowly in that fucking metal mesh cage.

Sitting there. Rotting.

Matt forced himself to breathe, and Foggy said, "Sure, Matt."

\--

He studies the rest of the day, thinking hard, and waiting until right when he's sure nobody else will be there. He does not miss steps; he asks for permission for a water bottle, keys to the apartment, a jacket, and finds his shoes. He obtains the privilege of them all, and Foggy lends him his mp3 player too, but Matt carefully puts it in his pocket.

He needs to be able to hear.

Walking to Fogwell's is like on broken glass with tissue-skin feet, but he goes because that's what his owner wants, and in some way it's what he wants too, to dig under scar tissue, see if some of the pus can be drained.

Maybe it won't be as bad as being whipped, or the first time being sold. The day that Stick dropped him like trash.

Summer always said that the first time you understood what pain and fear really were was the worst.

Matt went, and there was Fogwell himself.

"Matt Murdock," he said, sounding shocked. "I didn't even know if you were still alive, Jesus."

Matt swallows. "Can I use it after hours?" he asks. He can't say the _sir_ itching in his sternum, he can't, he'll break, he'll shatter.

Fogwell says, "Jesus, kid, you look awful--and of course you can. I owe that much to the son of Jack Murdock."

Matt says, "Thank you."

Fogwell gives him the key, and keeps the lights off, and walks out slowly like people walk around very crazy people sometimes.

Matt feels very crazy.

He exercises, of course he does, that's what he's here to do, that's what will be worth the pain. He trains and he trains and he thinks about his dad.

His dad, who is dead.

He finds one of the bags, and the extra wraps, and wraps his hands and _hits_.

In lieu of music, he thinks about a poem called _Orphan_.

He punches the bag.

_I am orphan._

He punches it again, a cross this time.

_I am collage of tragedy._

Again. It's not perfect.

_I am ghost of myself._

It has to be perfect.

_I am metal fatigue in hurricane._

He gets it right, but there is no-one to feed him a strawberry or pat his hair.

_I am cautionary tale._

He goes for the other punches. The right uppercut.

_I am tight rope trauma._

The left.

_I am leper on the subway._

Liver shot.

It's not only because he's so expensive that nobody touches him unless it's for them. Foggy does because he wants to touch Matt, and it's not so bad anymore.

_I am hemorrhage._

Right hook.

_I am eight day bruise._

He doesn't twist right. He does it again.

_I am compound fracture._

It's not right.

_I am spine tingle, stomach clench._

It's not _right_. He has to make it perfect before he can move on.

_I am scar tissue._

He finally gets it right. Now, left hook.

_I am grit your teeth._

And fucking smile through it.

_I am chili powder in paper cut._

His knuckles will be bruised from how hard he's hitting it.

_I am Molotov subtle._

He starts on kicks next.

_I am fucking Krakatoa._

Cinch, left.

_I am survivor's guilt._

He thinks about the way her jaw had snapped against his knee. How sweet it had been, because she was going to use him.

_I am still fucking here._

He thinks about his thumbs in the man's eyeballs, about _and his friend Matt the hero!_

_I am milk it for what it's worth._

They were so nice, the Nelsons. He's not sure what's changed, except now he's useful, he's done something material for Foggy. Helped him. They were so full of sweetness, they could even afford a little to him.

_I am bad loser, worse mourner._

Head kicks next.

_I am stained glass resilient._

Left, higher.

_I am hushed whisper in pity fest._

The smell of the cages. Sometimes they didn't clean out the dead bodies until morning.

_I am sour like curdled breast milk._

Right, even higher, you can do better than that.

_I am orphan._

Final one.

_I am never going to be loved like that again._

And he's done with the bag.

He does the rest of it, and with every movement he thinks about his dad, who is dead. Who cannot see him. Who doesn't know what Matt knows about suffering, about pain. About death.

Who would not be proud of him.

Matt does pull-ups and his dad is dead. Matt does crunches and his dad is dead. Matt does stretches and drinks water, and his dad is dead.

Matt gets this things to go back, and his dad is dead.

Matt leaves and locks up behind him, hiding the key where Fogwell said to--did he say to? Matt can't quite remember--and his dad is dead.

But Fogwell's is there.

His dad is dead.

But Fogwell's is _still_ there.

Matt heads home. His dad is dead. But not everything is lost.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The italicized 'I am' lines are from the poem "Orphan" by Catalina Ferro, here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/104691270512/fypoetry-catalina-ferros-orphan-trigger
> 
> The chapter title comes from "Poem About My Rights" by June Jordan, here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/118541046765/poem-about-my-rights-june-jordan


	30. all of our political actions are lies if we don’t make a commitment to ending the practice of rape

When Matt gets back, Foggy blinks at the sight of him. At first what he sees is Matt soaked in sweat, shirt and pants clinging to him, and it makes Foggy's mouth water.  
  
But then he glances at Matt's face and almost recoils, because it looks _wrong_. The closest thing he's seen to it is the face that that saint makes in the picture where she'd offering up her breasts on a plate. It's disturbing, and agony, and never before has a growing erection faltered so quickly.  
  
Matt says, voice robotic again, "Thank you, Foggy," and he puts his things away and mechanically walks over to the shower.  
  
Foggy hears him cry inside, and feels like he's somehow made a terrible mistake, but when Matt gets out, all he says in response to "Are you okay?" is "My dad is dead," and then he curls up and sleeps.  
  
It's so completely different to anything else Matt has ever done that Foggy can't even process it for an hour. But, jesus _christ_. He's not sure what's wrong with Matt--did he only just find out?--, but he feels suddenly determined to make it better.  
  
\--  
  
Matt wakes the next morning and feels numb. He hasn't felt this blank and dead in years upon years, not since he was first sold.  
  
And even back then, it had taken him a month of rotting in the cage to truly get to this way, a month of nobody speaking to him except during the roll-call and the overseer snarling "Get out here so we can hose you,", a month of absolutely nothing to think about except the crying slaves and the heat of the cages and the smells of the ones that died at night and the way the buyers wandered, picking out this or that one.  
  
Matt hadn't been picked for long enough that he'd lost his fear of possible owners, had snapped and called Winter a liar because he'd heard his heart skip.  
  
In hindsight, it was the best choice of his life. It was what intrigued them both, made Winter buy him.  
  
But he can't even quite feel happy at the thought. Instead all he can think with everything he does is _dad is still dead_. It's ridiculous, but he can't quite snap himself out of it for hours, not until Foggy's sitting him down and saying, "Hey, Matt, we need to go over how the whole 'rational conversation' attempt at getting that asshole off your back is going to work."  
  
Matt snaps to attention. "What do you want me to do, Foggy?"  
  
Foggy takes a deep breath--is he displeased? Matt can't quite focus enough to tell--and says, "I want you to tell him to meet us at the Melinda Mayfield building, on Friday, in the eastmost alcove, twenty minutes after your class, and then make a beeline for me, I'll be there so he can't have any plausible deniability if he freaks or tries anything. Got it?"  
  
"Yes, Foggy." Matt can remember.  
  
"And--okay, you seem really upset about something, let me give you a hug," and Foggy hugs him. It's strange how much Matt's distress bothers him. It occurs to him that there might be a psychological disorder along those lines. Over-empathy, maybe?  
  
Matt doesn't react to it, and then Foggy says, "Also, here," and hands him one of the blankets he keeps neatly stacked and folded at the foot of the bed.  
  
Matt opens it and wraps it around himself, murmurs, "Thank you, Foggy", not sure what he's being rewarded for--going to the gym? A belated reward?--and then goes back to studying.  
  
But he still doesn't feel like anything is real. Instead, all he can focus on is that his dad is still dead, and will forever be.  
  
\--  
  
The meeting is arranged with Devyn the next day. Matt's still weighed-down by the grief all the week long, heavier and heavier, and he can't even muster the extra emotion to feel annoyed that Devyn tells him that he totally doesn't have to go.  
  
Matt goes to Foggy on Friday and they walk to the building, and Foggy sets up his phone and tells Matt, "I'm recording this whole conversation, just to be sure, it uploads onto my google docs in real-time," and Matt feels a tiny prickle of something at how thorough a plan this is. He's wanted Foggy to be possessive of him and now that it's working, he at least feels some muted pleasure.  
  
"Thank you, Foggy," he says, and then Devyn arrives.  
  
"So, Franklin Nelson," Devyn begins. "I hear you're the kind of patriarchal, controlling, oppressive idiot who thinks I can be seriously scared off from talking to my friends."  
  
And at that and the constant emptiness where he should ache about his dad's death, Matt hears a small _snap_ in his chest and starts to laugh and then he can't stop, cackling and giggling and howling, tears streaming out of his eyes.  
  
"Oh," he finally wheezes out, hearing Foggy's concerned whisper of _shit, Matt, can you even breathe?_ after he finishes silently convulsing at the end, "Oh, it's kind of breathtaking, how stupid you are."  
  
Devyn startles. "What?"  
  
"You think--you _think_ \--" and Matt struggles to not laugh again, "You think we're _friends_? Because what, because you talk to me and I can't say no--"  
  
"You totally could, you're just more interested than you think, I know how this works! I have opened a book before! I watch _Saving Grace!_ "  
  
Matt tries to remember what _Saving Grace_ is. Then when he does, he starts helplessly laughing again. It's one of the most overblown, weepy pieces of abolitionist propaganda from the 70s. Modern groups are ashamed of it. "I just--" he says, and snorts. "That's your basis on how to be kind to slaves? You're hilarious."  
  
Devyn's frowning, but Foggy's face isn't angry, so Matt continues. "You think that because I can't say no to you, we're friends," and it's such a delicious irony, he can't help but go on, "And you think--you think your guilt, your stupid worthless guilt, you think I actually want to _hear_ it, you think I care about any of your utterly insignificant feelings--" and he giggles at that.  
  
Devyn takes a step back, and then tries to grab hold of the conversation like a well-oiled cat. "Look, I see what's going on here--"  
  
"Clearly," and interrupting a free person is _stupid_ but Foggy's starting to like what Matt's doing, so he goes on, "Clearly, I see this better than you, and I'm blind," and he laughs and gathers himself up and continues, "This isn't just about your hopeless social incompetence, is it?"  
  
Devyn flinches.  
  
"This is about your entire worldview," and that rings true, "This is about your fundamental self-conception. All your animal rights and _want to join the abolitionist group_ and--and-- all the monologues about this and that oppression, as if you know anything about oppression-- it's all about how you see yourself, how you want me to reflect back your view of yourself. Do you think you're a good person?"  
  
Devyn gives a tiny gasp. Matt's struck gold.  
  
"You _do_ ," he says, grinning like a shark. "You aren't. You are an _idiot_ ," he declares, embolded by Foggy's noise of shocked awe. "You are the kind of person who thinks that their worthless feelings that will never matter and never make any difference help any of us, that thinks they're apart from the _system_ , who goes to abolitionist rallies and then jacks off behind us on the subway so we go home and get beaten for it, you are the kind of person that wants us broken and bleeding so you can _make it all better_."  
  
Devyn says, tiny, horrified, "No--no, I want to help destroy the system, I want--"  
  
"You're a part of it," Matt says, and relishes in the chance to do something he's never done before: told a free person what the world is really like. "You're as much a part of it as the people who never buy a slave but rent them from your friends, or the people who buy us but feed us most of the time, or the people who buy cinderellas and then re-enslave them at the end of their midnight ball--"  
  
And Matt didn't even realize he was _thinking_ most of this, it's not appropriate, he'll feel so horrified of himself later, but it's all echoing inside him, the milk teeth, his dad's death, the mesh cage he was in, the corpses, Charlotte being beaten to death, the skinless back of the child whipped half to death for smiling _when he was told to_ , the way an overseer had tried to apologize to Matt after the beating he'd gotten, trying to calm down Master Robert and save her.  
  
Matt licks his lips and get control of himself and says, "None of your guilt matters. It doesn't mean anything to me. You're not important. You are not my white knight. All you are is another person who feeds the machine that grinds us up and spits us out."  
  
"That's not my _fault_ ," Devyn protests.  
  
Matt says to him what he had wanted to say so badly to that overseer. "Everyone tells themselves that, and that's why nothing will ever change."  
  
Devyn starts to cry from that, and runs away, and Matt feels a rush of horror and shame and fear, he's going to deserve to be whipped or have his legs broken or be left in a silent room for a month for this, and despite floating on his victory, he still gets on his knees in front of Foggy, and says because he doesn't want to die, "I apologize--"  
  
Foggy cuts him off. "I think that's the first time I've heard what you actually think for longer than five seconds," and sounds awed. "Matt--don't apologize. Actually, this sounds dumb, but. Thank you for showing me that. That was kind of crazy awesome. You made that piece of shit _run away crying_ , holy fuck."  
  
Matt smiles and feels nothing other than full of glory. "Thank you, Foggy," and he lowers his head to rest on Foggy's thigh, emboldened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also comes from Andrea Dworkin's "I Want a Twenty-Four-Hour Truce During Which There Is No Rape".


	31. birds born in a cage think flying is an illness

Foggy didn't know quite how to react, except by one hand coming down and touching Matt's face. Matt leaned into it and kissed his hand, slowly, sweetly, like people kissed their lovers.  
  
Foggy shivered. Something had just happened that was _huge_. He hadn't processed everything Matt had said, but Foggy knew that _that_ was the sound of Matt's true voice, and it was vicious and determined and furious.   
  
God, he was glad he had thought to record this. He was going to listen to it over and over again until he understood every single thing Matt had said and how all of it related to each other. He'd analyzed Judith Butler. Comparatively, Matt's words would be easier on the surface, and way more rewarding.  
  
Then he realized that he was still sitting with Matt kneeling on the floor in front of him, head lolling on his thigh, eyes half-lidded, and flushed with embarassment at the picture they must be painting.  
  
"Uh, let's--you know what, let's go home," Foggy said. He needed to ride this momentum, understand Matt better now that he had already opened up in front of him.  
  
Matt murmured, sounding strangely relaxed, "We have class again in two hours."  
  
Yeah, they did. "It's Torts, fuck it, I'll just get the powerpoint later," Foggy said. It wasn't as if the professor said anything beyond what was on them, anyhow.  
  
"Yes, Foggy," Matt said back in an exhale. He seemed pretty happy, and Foggy understood why. It had to be a relief, finally speaking your mind.   
  
They got up and got their things and started to go out, except that as they passed one of the other alcoves closer to the front door, Foggy was startled by a loud knocking.  
  
There was a girl--a woman--a slave? She was wearing a small red leather collar--standing up, staring at Matt, knocking on the wall with one hand. She looked concerned and angry, and shot Foggy a look that could have stripped paint.  
  
"Oh," Matt murmured. "Foggy, may I?" and his hand was held delicately, fingers slightly curled, near the wall.  
  
"Sure," Foggy said, distracted, and then Matt's hand reached to the wall and tapped back.  
  
Foggy blinked and looked between them as she and Matt started to communicate like that, tapping furiously. She looked at Matt for most of it, eyes full of frustration. Something about her looked _starved_ , even though she wasn't actually skinny. Maybe something about her mouth, with peeling lips that she kept firmly shut, or her arms, which had small ugly-looking knotted scars and white dots of the same tissue up and down.  
  
Were those _cigarette burn_ scars?  
  
After five or so minutes, Matt sighed and tapped something, and then she tossed her head and glared at him. He tapped the same thing again, and her shoulders slumped, and she breathed out and tapped something fast and short.  
  
Matt tapped the same thing, and Foggy realized that must be the good-bye, so he and Matt went.  
  
\--  
  
Matt felt full of fog.  
  
It was an odd feeling. He wasn't particularly frightened; if Foggy was taking him home to punish him, which Matt no longer felt was likely, then it probably wouldn't be anything too awful. Foggy had seemed _pleased_ with what he'd done, found his words _crazy awesome_. He had been sincere, and he had let Matt lie his head on his leg like a well-trained slave.   
  
But he probably looked dreamy, or not entirely with it, because Barely Legal had demanded what Foggy had done or was going to do. Matt had _told_ it that he didn't know, but it didn't believe him that Foggy was pleased, and he'd only managed to fend it off by promising to tell it all about it on Monday.  
  
And he would, unless Foggy forbade him from speaking with it.   
  
But then, as if Foggy had heard his fleeting thought, as they walked home, Foggy guiding him, he said, "Who was--actually, no, you know what, I'm not going to ask. Your friends, your business."  
  
Oh. That was rather nice. Matt felt a glow from being trusted to stay within appropriate boundaries like that. He resolved to be even better for Foggy. Anyone who didn't punish him after saying things like that was an owner Matt ought to be far more grateful to have.  
  
It seemed as if his snapping--losing his temper, his composure, his control--had actually rather worked in his favor.  
  
This theory was reinforced by the fact that once they actually got home, Foggy immediately put the strawberries out on the counter for Matt, and Matt took a slightly bold step and ate some of them, slowly and happily.  
  
Foggy said, after putting things down, spreading out his arms to hold his weight against the countertop, "Matt, I just wanted to say--I'm glad you said those things, because I want to know the real you, and that was the real you. I can't seem to figure out who you are and what you actually think by myself, so thanks for helping me. And if there's anything else you can bring yourself to tell me about you that would give me more information about how you think, I'd be really happy."  
  
Matt tilted his head. Could he--? Well, he might as well, so he suggested softly, "I could tell you about the methods of my trainer, Foggy, if you believe that would better inform you."  
  
Foggy said, sounding rather like someone who knew he wouldn't like what came next but was so curious he couldn't help but go ahead anyways, "Why don't you tell me about those, then."  
  
Matt nodded and put down the strawberry he had picked up. "Well, they believed in reward conditioning more than punishment conditioning," he began.  
  
"What is--" Foggy cut himself off, but Matt was all too happy to elaborate.  
  
"Punishment conditioning is a method of training that focuses on removing positive and introducing negative stimuli in order to create a disincentive for certain behaviours," Matt explained. "Many training centers use punishment conditioning to attempt to remove certain behaviors, such as removing collars or touching them. For example, a slave is shocked if it touches the collar, or the blankets in its cage are removed. This creates a strong negative association with touching its collar.  
  
"Reward conditioning, however, focuses on introducing positive and removing negative stimuli in order to provide incentives to perform certain behaviors. For example, a slave is given a square of chocolate every time it kneels without being told explicitly. This creates a strong positive association with kneeling in anticipation of its owners' needs.  
  
"My trainers--my first owner, Winter, and his slave Summer--believed very strongly in reward conditioning. As she explained it to me, the human brain is far more inclined to chase after rewards than to run away from pain or danger. And in particular, my own stubbornness that allowed me to survive in the Brooklyn open market was clearly a useful enough trait that attempting to remove it via punishment conditioning would only degrade my ultimate value.  
  
"And so at first, in good reward conditioning, there is a calibration of rewards--a slave is given many different small foods to try, and they are ranked on how good they taste, and how pleasant they are to eat. Then there are which fabrics are most pleasant to touch, which musical or nature sounds are most soothing, which forms of physical contact are the most satisfying, which activities are the most enjoyable, and so on.   
  
"Rewards must be calibrated accurately and specifically to control which associations are made and why; if a reward is insufficiently reinforcing for a behavior, the behavior is not reinforced enough, and if a reward is over-generous for a behavior, the behavior is given a higher than required priority.  
  
"For me, after calibration, I was then rewarded mostly via small fruits such as strawberries and blackberries, and also via the addition of blankets and softer, hooded sweatshirts. The first few lessons are simple obedience reinforcement; I--may I demonstrate?"  
  
Foggy's body was still. "Yeah, why not," Foggy said, voice sounding off.  
  
Matt nodded. "Thank you, Foggy," and then he cleared his throat.  
  
\--  
  
Matt's voice came out sounding like he was very clearly quoting what someone had said to him before.   
  
"Since kindness is far better a sculptor than cruelty, this is what I will be using as my primary tool," and this was, Foggy knew, the voice of the short, beautiful woman that had come over that morning after Matt broke down and cried.  
  
"Now of course pain has its own utility--all pain is a lesson, and all lessons can make you better. But the problem with pain is that it's so imprecise; it does not always teach the lesson it is meant to. So we will begin with basic obedience training; if you obey the command, you will be rewarded. Now kneel--" and Matt knelt on the floor, "with your hands behind your back, spine straight, face pointed at the ceiling, fingers laced together, and be still. Do not move your legs, your arms, your face, your mouth, your jaw, your torso. Be still for thirty seconds."  
  
Matt did, his whole body like a statue.  
  
"Perfect. Now you get this," and one of his hands reached up and grabbed a strawberry, and put it in his mouth. "Enjoy."  
  
Matt's eyes fluttered shut as he ate it.  
  
"Now again. Thirty-three seconds."  
  
He repeated it, and then after the second strawberry, broke character to keep explaining things to Foggy. "Then the next one is a different kneel, and more and more progressively classically submissive poses, and with each you hold each one for longer and longer, with better rewards as you go, and once you can do all of those, you are taught the different ways to crawl, and to walk, and then the different gestures--kissing an owner's hand, kissing an owner's feet, kissing what an owner has held in front of you to kiss, and then more tasks--"  
  
Foggy couldn't stand any more. "I think I get the picture," he said. The worst part of this was that Matt wasn't upset about it. He wasn't recalling a sad story or a horrifying experience. His tone was brisk and clinical and _wistful_ , like he wanted to be back there.  
  
Foggy swallowed, and thought about what to say next, and opened his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a quote from Alejandro Jodorowsky.


	32. protect me from what I want

What came out was him grabbing at this straw. "I--Matt, you said that, uh, calibrating was important? Of rewards?"  
  
Matt blinks and tilts his head and nods. "Yes, Foggy. It's crucial that all stimuli introduced are positive and all stimuli removed are negative, or unwanted associations are created and must be untangled and removed before progress can be made."  
  
He sounds like someone talking about teaching a dog to sit. Fuck. Foggy's going to hate himself later, but he plows forward. "So if I asked you to--to make a list of what was positive, and negative stimuli for you, the one you made would be truthful? And what you really felt about it?"  
  
Matt looks _terrified_ for a second, and then his face smoothes itself back out, but Foggy saw it and goes to correct it. "You don't have to put everything on there, but could you make one? And have at least some things? And rank them from most to least positive and negative?"  
  
God, it's fucked up, but apparently Foggy's now speaking Matt's language, because Matt says, "Of course, Foggy."  
  
But he looks still faintly scared and confused, hiding under his facial expression, so Foggy adds on, "I just--as far as I can tell, I don't know what you like or don't like, what makes you happy and what doesn't, and I want to know that, because I don't like you being unhappy or uncomfortable or in pain in any way." He sounds like how he's heard Anna talk to her patients over the phone sometimes.  
  
Matt looks less confused now. "Thank you, Foggy," he says, and reaches to kiss Foggy's hand, and Foggy realizes that for Matt that's somehow _more_ sincere than the words themselves, or a normal thank you.   
  
Foggy takes a deep breath as Matt gets to work, and imagines what Anna would say about this. Probably some sage thing like how different people are allowed to like different things and it's not Foggy's job to decide which of those things were inherently better, and some pointed note about how subjective experiences could _feel_ objective but weren't.  
  
He thinks and, while still guilty, arrives at the conclusion that if Matt puts down that he likes things that Foggy doesn't want him to do--like kneeling, or that collar--than he's just going to have to suck it up and deal with it. Either Foggy Nelson was the kind of person who thought it was fine to dictate someone else's preferences or he wasn't, and he _wasn't_.  
  
\--  
  
Matt typed it all, desperately grateful for the loophole in Foggy's order. He didn't have to put down everything, which meant he didn't have to shatter Foggy's fantasy of him coming to love him. It would be fine.  
  
But, on the other hand, if Foggy really started to use reward conditioning on Matt, to help more directly shape him into what he wanted, then Matt knew he'd come to adore him in his own way.   
  
It wasn't love--he remembered what that was from when he was a person--but it would have to be enough for Foggy.  
  
Glad the itching weight of the mask was finally off, Matt wrote and wrote. He'd put it in a Googledoc--he'd asked Foggy, and Foggy said as well, _you can always go back and reshuffle things and change your mind, I want to know the real you and not a past you_ , so it seemed the optimal medium.  
  
He edited it, shared it with Foggy, closed his eyes and let himself enjoy kneeling on a couch cushion in the sunlight of the afternoon, skin singing like hymns. Bad things might be coming. It was best to take pleasure where you could.  
  
\--  
  
Foggy made himself grab a ginger ale before he opened up the google doc link. This would probably not be anything less than queasy-making.  
  
 _Positive Stimuli, from most to least:  
  
-being wrapped in the fleece blanket and allowed to sleep in Foggy's bed with it  
-holding Isayeah Nelson  
-going to classes (apart from Torts)  
-interacting with slave 3519781841181818  
-being allowed to wear shoes and clothing in public  
-strawberries  
-the collar Foggy gave me  
-eating food three times a day, to ordinary human portions  
-sleeping eight hours or more a night  
-being allowed to use a computer  
-warm showers  
  
Negative Stimuli, from least to most:  
  
-having to stand up in public as opposed to kneeling  
-tearing out fingernails  
-interacting with Devyn_  
  
and Foggy cracks up there. It's amazing; Matt just made a _joke_ , and one that Foggy got.  
  
Then, when he's not laughing, he continues. There's two more things on 'negative stimuli'.  
  
 _-Unearned affection_  
-Being ignored  
.  
  
Foggy winces. But then he reads it over four more times, realizes two things.  
  
First of all, some of the things he'd really want clarification on.  
  
Second of all, sex wasn't on it yet, and Foggy had the sinking feeling that it needed to be.  
  
"Matt," he said, "This is really helpful, but, uh, I've got a couple of questions."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Jenny Holzer's works.


	33. you are unique at last

Matt visibly tensed and then forced himself to relax.   
  
Foggy went on, slowly, sitting on the floor--he needed to be on Matt's level for this, and given that he apparently liked kneeling more than sitting, he wasn't about to make him get up--with "I don't know what you mean by unearned affection. Could you clarify for me, please?"  
  
Matt blinked. "I meant affection that is not a reward for a task done correctly--for example, you hug me very often, even when I have not done anything, Foggy."  
  
" _What_? I--okay, it's fine," because Matt looked scared for a second at that. "No, Matt, seriously, uh, good job communicating with me, because I really didn't realize that, and now I know, more data is good."  
  
But--Matt didn't like being hugged? Or--jesus, how many times had Foggy touched him in a way he couldn't escape and didn't like? Fuck.  
  
"Can I ask--I thought you liked them, you seemed like you did."  
  
Matt swallowed. "I had deduced that you wanted me to enjoy them, and fulfilling and anticipating an owner's needs is an important task that all slaves must do their best to fulfill, I apologize for overstepping, Foggy, please--"  
  
No, he had to stop before it all went to hell again. "No, stop, it's fine," Foggy said. "But--stop doing that, okay? Start to be honest with me. If you don't like something, say something, or, or I don't know, get my attention or flinch or something, I'll get you like, I don't know, a ball and if you squeeze it I'll know you don't like whatever it is that's happening, if you have trouble saying the words."  
  
"Yes, Foggy," Matt murmured, body relaxing at the order. Foggy breathed out and desperately wanted to hug him right there and then and stopped and thought more.   
  
Matt _had_ put down that he liked being wrapped in a fleece blanket, and so Foggy went and got one, and put it around him firmly, and came up with how to justify it to Matt so he would enjoy it.   
  
"Uh, okay," he said as he did it. "Think of this as--as a reward for being alive. I don't think it could have been easy for you, surviving all of this," and he made a vague gesture and then realized that he had just expected the blind guy to understand his vague gesture and winced, "I mean, surviving being enslaved and all of your previous...owners," and not torturers, because Foggy had the distinct feeling that Matt would feel obligated to defend them, and he had to keep the focus on what he wanted communicated. "And I'm really, really glad that you're alive and keep being alive, so think of anything that's nice and you can't figure out what it's a reward for as a reward for being alive, okay?"  
  
Matt nodded, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "Thank you, Foggy," he said, and kissed Foggy's hand.  
  
It was starting to feel normal.  
  
But kissing his hand reminded him of the way Matt had mentioned _kissing what an owner has held in front of you to kiss_ as a task that he was trained to do, and probably there was some Kama Sutra-esque category system for kisses and how to get them exactly right, and it all coalesced into an ugly lead weight in Foggy's stomach.   
  
He didn't think Matt had actually enjoyed kissing him, or sex, and Foggy absolutely had to know.  
  
"So, for the next question, I really, really want you to answer honestly, even if it scares you," and Matt looked alarmed at that, "Because it's really important to me, I've been trying to say that, and I need to know, Matt, this is a safety thing," because rape really wasn't safe.  
  
Foggy took a deep breath, and said as calmly as he could make it, "Where would you put having sex with me on the list of stimuli?"  
  
Matt gave an aborted flinch. Foggy knew he needed to coax it out more. "All that will happen if you put it on negative is that I'll stop," Foggy said. "I'm never going to hit you or rip out your fingernails or sell you back to Rosalind, even if you piss me off or make me sad or, hell, make me cry. I don't think it's acceptable of me to do that to you. If you don't like it, I'll just stop. I don't--I don't want to be introducing any negative stimuli into your life, ever, at all, and I won't take away anything positive, either."  
  
Matt hesitated, and visibly gathered up the courage, and said in a small, broken, terrified voice, "Above being ignored."  
  
That could be anywhere. "And below?" Foggy asked, cringing in his head.  
  
"Below unearned affection," Matt whispered and instantly his hands were laced behind his head and his head was on the floor, his whole body shaking in anticipation.  
  
Foggy stared. Then he slowly stood and put that in. "I see," he said, wanting to scream.   
  
"I--fuck, Matt, I'm sorry," he said, and Matt gulped at that and said, "It's--can I add more, I'm so sorry Foggy, I apologize, please, it's not as bad as you think, there is--being whipped is worse than sex, being choked with a belt is worse than sex--"  
  
"Stop." Foggy said. He couldn't hear any more.  
  
Matt's mouth shut.  
  
Foggy stood and breathed, staring at him, at their whole living room. He had to take care of Matt right now. He had to make sure Matt didn't have another breakdown.   
  
He got the strawberries from the fridge and gave them to Matt. "That's--good job for communicating with me," because Foggy wanted more of that and just trying to ask Matt would result in Matt telling him what he thought Foggy wanted to hear. "Thank you for telling me, I'm, I'm just, all this means is we won't have any more sex, ever, at all, it's going to be fine, you're okay, you're safe, I won't hit you."  
  
Matt uncurled a tiny bit.  
  
"You can have all the strawberries in this if you want, I'm, I'm going to go and buy more, and cheesecake too, because," because otherwise he would start to lose his shit around Matt and that couldn't end well. "Because that took a lot of courage, and, and I value honesty and thank you for being honest with me, I'm not going to do anything bad to you or take away anything that you like, I'll be back soon," and he almost ran the fuck out of there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also taken from Margaret Atwood's "Siren Song".


	34. it’s so nice to wake up in the morning all alone and not have to tell somebody you love them when you don’t love them anymore

Matt ate the strawberries in the box methodically, one by one, careful to not spill the leaves anywhere but the lid. Foggy had said he could eat all of them, and that he had done a good job communicating, and so he would.   
  
It might mean no more strawberries for a long time, but that was fine. Matt could cope with just about anything. He felt all his strength returning, his body buzzing with readiness from Foggy's sweet words. _And I'm really, really glad that you're alive and keep being alive, so think of anything that's nice and you can't figure out what it's a reward for as a reward for being alive_.   
  
It was adorable, in a way. No wonder Foggy had been so unclear and difficult to please. What he wanted was a slave to shower with affection, to spoil, not someone to put to work. He wanted a _doll_. Matt felt rather like he'd been moved from being a dishwasher to being a service slave, and being told _it was only a mix-up, you should have been doing this from the beginning_.   
  
Matt smiled. And Foggy really didn't want a pet. Nobody who wanted a pet rewarded a slave for clear, explicit verbal communication, or promised to let them keep attending law school.  
  
Oh, he had been such an idiot, thinking this was in any way a bad placement. But now he could hear things clearly, understand what he was supposed to be doing. Miss Sharpe had been so very, very good to him, to give him to Foggy like this. His estimation of her went up sharply.  
  
Matt ate the strawberries, and rubbed his cheek against the blanket. Being rewarded for being _alive_. He'd have to be careful to not let it rot his teeth, all this delectable sweetness.  
  
\--  
  
Foggy had never thought he would be contemplating suicide in the bakery section of Safeway.  
  
His cart had four pounds of strawberries in it. He hadn't been able to care about the unseasonal prices.  
  
He'd raped Matt.  
  
Foggy counted in his head, and he'd raped Matt three times.  
  
He'd never thought he would be a rapist.  
  
Foggy stared vacantly at the cheesecakes. Everything seemed bright and unreal, demented and wrong. How was it that he'd tried to be the nicest possible person to Matt and raped him? What the hell had he been thinking?  
  
It didn't matter, Foggy realized. It had been excuses, it had been self-justifications, it had been Matt nudging him to keep raping him, because he thought that was what Foggy wanted. Matt had tried to anticipate him and Foggy had let himself think that it was _real_. God, how could he live with himself?  
  
But if he killed himself, Matt would revert back to Rosalind, and she...she had had him strip and crawl to Foggy, in a diner, covered in ribbons and bows, and had cheerfully told Foggy how she'd taken him for a test drive and how fucking good he was at sex, _he eats ass like a champ, he'll get you to loosen up_.  
  
All that would happen if Foggy died was that Matt would keep being raped.  
  
So instead he made himself go to the cheesecakes and start getting one of every flavor. There were fifteen, and every few seconds he jerked again in agony as he remembered.   
  
He was a rapist. Foggy Nelson was a rapist. Foggy Nelson had raped someone three times and _made them pretend to like it_.  
  
He felt like he was drowning in guilt. He wanted to scream _it's not my fault, I didn't know, how was I supposed to know--_  
  
But then he remembered Matt's words. _Everyone tells themselves that, and that's why nothing will ever change_.  
  
Well, fuck that. Things were going to change. Foggy was going to be the best fucking owner on this godforsaken dystopia, since apparently being an owner only in name was not in his capabilities.  
  
Foggy was going to replay every single word of what Matt had said to that piece of shit, and he was going to understand them and not hold himself apart from them like he was magically exempt from the system.  
  
And he wasn't going to have sex with Matt, or anyone else. If he was fucked up and thoughtless enough to rape someone three times without having any idea what he was doing, it was not safe or ethical for him to have sex with anyone else. Not ever again.  
  
\--  
  
Matt looked calm and happy when Foggy got back.  
  
"So, here are strawberries," he said. "I got a lot, you can do whatever you want with them."  
  
Matt paused and then licked his lips and said. "Foggy--may I--do you like cakes?"  
  
"What?" Because what did that have to do with anything? "Yeah."  
  
"Then may I be permitted to make a variation of princessetorte? It's a cake made for celebrations in Sweden," Matt explained. "One can substitute the raspberry jam for strawberry jam, and it's even better that way."  
  
"A cake." Foggy said, stunned. Matt was--Matt thought this was worthy of celebration.   
  
Well, for him it probably was. He'd just been told that he was never going to be raped ever again, at least not by this owner.  
  
"I--sure. I'm going to go study. Why don't you, uh, see what you'd need for it that we don't have, and put it on a list, and I'll...go out later tonight and get it. And we should probably study too."  
  
"Of course, Foggy," Matt murmured, an grin on his face from ear to ear. "Thank you so much. I'm sorry I ever thought it would be anything but lovely to be owned by you," and he kissed Foggy's hand like he adored him. "Thank you for the honor."  
  
Foggy stared at Matt. "I'm sorry I raped you," he said suddenly. "It's so stupid, it's so little, I can't ever really apologize for it. But I promise you, I won't ever, I will never do that again. Ever. Things will get better."  
  
"No need to apologize, Foggy," Matt said, ducking his head, still grinning, though his eyes looked confused too. "I am happy to fulfill any desire my owner has of me. I want only to be good for you."  
  
Foggy wanted to vomit. He was going to, he realized slowly. "Then--uh--focus on yourself," he said. "Try to...figure out what you want, and what makes you happy, and, and, protect yourself. I want..I want you to be alive," and then he had to go be sick. He ran to the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is the poem "Love Poem" by Richard Brautigan, and can be seen here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/64881596105/its-so-nice-to-wake-up-in-the-morning-all-alone


	35. one day you finally knew what you had to do, and began

Matt frowned, but he knew what to do to care for a sick owner. They'd gotten the flu before, or had a bad night of drinking, or--  
  
Oh. This was just like Mistress Janet, after her ex-husband had tried to come back and rape her, and Matt had stopped it. This was emotional pain, from Foggy realizing he hadn't done what he'd wanted to do to his doll.  
  
(Matt'd broken all four of the would-be rapist's limbs, crushed his hands and feet with the tire iron the man had threatened Mistress Janet with. The ex-husband had never gotten past threatening her into taking off her shirt as he unbuckled his pants. Matt had pretended to be asleep, then once he'd had his hands on his belt, Matt had grabbed the iron and hit and hit until she was safe and any more would put her at risk of having to put him down for unnecessary use of lethal force.  
  
She had thanked him so much afterwards, but been shaky and sick for weeks, almost unable to care for her twins, Leah and Naomi. Matt hadn't realized before then what rape really was, how it was so horrible even it _almost_ happening could hurt someone so severely. He felt so angry on behalf of her and every other free person who'd been hurt like that.)  
  
Matt remembered what he had done for Mistress Janet, who he missed briefly, and got out a cold can of soda--he _hoped_ it was ginger ale, he was pretty sure Foggy had opened one in his room earlier--and went to the bathroom, where Foggy was throwing up.  
  
He pushed gently on the open door, and placed it on the sink as he rubbed Foggy's back and tried to make soft, submissive, comforting noises.  
  
Foggy dry-heaved for a few more moments--Matt kept iron control of his senses, did not gag, thank goodness for him having that reflex destroyed, otherwise he'd be throwing up too--and then gasped out, voice hurt, "Oh, shit, Matt--"  
  
"It's alright," Matt murmured. "I'm alright, nothing bad is happening, you're safe," and Foggy made a horrific sobbing noise.  
  
"Shit," Foggy said eventually. "I should--I'm gonna brush my teeth--"  
  
And Matt gracefully stood up and tucked the cold can under his arm, taking care to not shake it. "Of course, Foggy," he said. "Can I please make you something?"  
  
Foggy choked on his toothpaste, sounding like he might vomit again, but then he spat it out and rinsed out his mouth several times.  
  
"Matt," he said, and sounded like he was about to cry.   
  
Matt pulled Foggy into the gentlest embrace he could. "I'm okay," he tried, hoping that was what had startled Foggy. "You didn't hurt me, I'm okay, there is no danger here."  
  
Foggy gave a horrible noise at that, and then pulled back. "Matt," he said. "I--I think I, I," and then he couldn't continue.  
  
Matt thought frantically. He came up with, "Do you--if you're worried about me, do you wish to be in the kitchen as I make the cake, Foggy? It's a soothing process. Baking is a very calming activity."  
  
Foggy said, sounding horrified, "I...guess. Matt, shit, I'm so sorry. I can't ever apologize enough."  
  
For _Matt's_ failings? Matt knew he needed to find Foggy some sort of therapy for sure now. This couldn't be healthy.  
  
\--  
  
Foggy felt distant and strange as he followed Matt into the kitchen and sat in the chair, watching Matt bustle around.  
  
"We actually have everything I need for it," Matt explained. "It's a very delicious cake, I'm sure you'll see, but first--oh, Foggy, I apologize, I got this for you," and he handed him a can of ginger ale.  
  
"Thank you," Foggy said, because what the hell else could he say?   
  
Matt nodded. "Now, the princessetorte that I learned consists of several layers of a vanilla sponge, with various levels of creme patisserie, strawberry jam, a whipped cream dome, and marizpan on top, with a fondant rose and chocolate decoration. But I've noticed you don't like marzipan--on the celebration two weeks ago, you picked it off your plate, so we don't need that."  
  
Matt explained everything that he was doing in a calm, steady voice, narrating the process. It was bizarrely fascinating. Foggy felt like nothing was exactly real, and any moment now he'd wake up and find Matt cuddling him or something, smiling and not this horrifically twisted person.  
  
But he was. This was real.  
  
Foggy cleared his throat and Matt instantly shut up in the middle of a sentence explaining how to make the jam.  
  
"Why do you like baking?"  
  
That had to be a safe topic, and Matt had put that he hated being ignored, that it was the most negative thing on his list. Foggy couldn't stand the thought of hurting him any more than he already had.  
  
Matt tilted his head.   
  
"It's calming," he said. "You have to focus on what you're doing and get things precisely right, Foggy, but then when you do, you have tangible proof that you succeeded, and you don't have to worry about it anymore. It requires thought, but not exhaustingly."  
  
Foggy nodded. That made some degree of sense.   
  
And then it hit him again, that he had...he had raped Matt, he was a rapist--  
  
Who was now kneeling before him, his hands on Foggy's legs, saying softly, "Foggy, what can I do to make you feel better?"  
  
Foggy stared at him. "Why do you _care_?" He asked, unable to believe it.  
  
But then he realized sharply that of course Matt cared, for Matt everything depended on his owner's moods and whims. Foggy's approval, Foggy's happiness was his water. Of course he couldn't trust that Foggy would treat him right even if he felt horrible. Foggy hadn't treated him right when he felt _good_.  
  
Well, that was going to have to change, too.   
  
"No--that's obvious, sorry," he said to Matt. "I just--I can't--go keep doing whatever makes you happy, okay, I'll, I'll deal with this," because he couldn't take back what he had done but he could do his damnest to not force Matt to comfort his rapist, he could do that.  
  
Matt nodded, and then leaned his head carefully on Foggy's thigh, breathing in and out.  
  
Foggy didn't move. "That makes you happy?"  
  
Matt nodded. "Thank you, Foggy," he murmured, and kissed Foggy's hand around the ginger ale. His lips were so soft, so obscenely beautiful...  
  
Foggy jerked away. Jesus fuck. He couldn't think things like that anymore.  
  
Foggy closed his eyes, and then Matt stood up and went back to baking, humming something softly to himself, something low and soothing.  
  
\--  
  
Matt hoped that humming the song would help. Foggy's heartbeat had jumped after Matt had kissed his hand in thanks--and it had been happily given thanks, Matt missed being allowed contact like that, appropriate contact that he understood--and then now it slowed down as Matt worked.  
  
He thought about his life, and reminded himself of all the good things, each one vivid. He wasn't hungry. He wasn't thirsty. He wasn't tired or sleep-deprived or time-woozy. He wasn't bored, or exhausted, or walking on eggshells anymore. He wasn't near dogs, or outside, or too cold, or too hot. He was allowed good things. He would probably continue being allowed good things. He was valued, he was important to his owner.   
  
And he had things to look forward to. As a slave, anything beyond perhaps the next fifteen minutes was questionable, but with this owner, even the distant future--the end of the semester--seemed not just possible but so close Matt could taste it.   
  
Matt smiled. He had worked so hard, and while it was very surprising Foggy wanted a doll, it was rather a splendid thing to be.  
  
(Very very rich people, with many slaves, often had dolls, or dolls who were also house-slaves or bed-slaves or service-slaves. Summer was a doll, albeit one who also functioned as a service-slave, among other things. Sometimes very strange people, or people who had a lot of trouble connecting to others, had dolls. But Foggy wasn't rich or saturated with slaves or socially unconnected; Foggy was already forming friendships with other students.  
  
Perhaps Matt needed to investigate why other owners had dolls. He knew, vaguely, that psychologists often did, and used them in therapy sessions. _Show me where the bad man touched you on the doll_ and all that.  
  
That had the ring of a good plan. Matt resolved to find out why, and perhaps see if he could serve the same therapeutic purposes. After all, his owner seemed to have an unreasonably upset reaction to any distress of Matt's, even distress that really shouldn't have mattered to him.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Mary Oliver's "The Journey", here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/119124093517/the-journey-mary-oliver


	36. for to carry nothing means there is no “me”  almost

The cake came out and it was delicious, Foggy thought, as he ate. It was weird, he should have been tasting ash or something, but he wasn't. He was tasting cream and cake and jam and sweetness, and Matt looked like his whole world revolved around Foggy liking the cake.  
  
"It's good," Foggy managed to say after the first bite.  
  
Matt visibly relaxed and smiled. "Thank you, Foggy," he said, and then, "May I have some too?"  
  
"You can have as much cake as you want for the rest of your life," Foggy said, hoping Matt understood.  
  
Matt smiled and hid it behind his hand--Foggy wondered why, vaguely--and took a piece of cake half the size of Foggy's and ate, folding his legs under him and sitting on the floor near the oven.  
  
Foggy stared at him, at the picture he made. Matt was wearing a plainly colored t-shirt--in teal--and jeans, and a black jacket that made him look smart and polished, almost a blazer. He'd rolled the sleeves up to eat, and his forearms stuck out, and something about his pose looked to Foggy like--  
  
Like Matt was _enticing_ him.  
  
Okay. Well. Foggy just would have to resist the temptation.  
  
He ate the rest of the cake, making sure to show how good it was, because that would make Matt happy, and then drank the ginger ale, and went to go study.  
  
\--  
  
The rest of the weekend passed in very gentle bliss for Matt. He was allowed to eat some more of the cake and portioned out one very small slice for breakfast, after yoga, before Foggy woke up, and one slightly bigger after dinner, because really, you couldn't eat cake too fast or else you seemed greedy.  
  
But it was adorable, and so genuinely lovely of Foggy to say things like _You can have as much cake as you want for the rest of your life_. Matt had never been a fully-fledged doll before, but if it meant he could get himself cake like this without so much begging or semen soaking into him, he would never get tired of it.  
  
Matt felt like he'd won the lottery, despite it being absurd. Slaves weren't allowed to gamble unless their owners were there and it was in a casino.  
  
Matt studied and cleaned and cooked, and by now he knew which foods Foggy liked and approximately when he woke up and when he was hungry, so Matt timed everything correctly. Things went companionably. Foggy asked him about topics, sometimes, and Matt's answers weren't the wrong ones.  
  
The only snag was Saturday night, when Matt knew he wanted to go to Fogwell's. It would hurt, but the last time, he'd set off a chain reaction that had led to him finally understanding his owner, so it was well worth it.  
  
Besides, he really ought to keep training. Now that he was permitted to defend himself, he was determined to do so. His fists fit so nicely in a thief's gut.  
  
Foggy had said, when Matt asked, "Do you actually _like_ it, though, Matt? You seemed pretty upset last time."  
  
Matt had paused and knelt comfortably, and said slowly, "I--my dad used to go there," and the words _my dad_ felt like the way a tongue piercing being ripped out sounded, "And it makes me miss him," and wasn't that inadequate, words couldn't begin to hint at grief, "But I--I like training, and there no-one would attempt to damage your property."  
  
Foggy had then said, "Then, yeah, any time you want, just make sure you're carrying this," and had handed him a can of mace.  
  
Matt had blinked. "Foggy, I apologize, but in the state of New York, mace in specific requires a special permit for a slave to carry it."  
  
"Oh," Foggy had said. "Shit, um--"  
  
Matt had rescued him quickly. It made sense that Foggy wanted his doll perfect. "I could carry one of the oven-cleaner sprays, Foggy," he had said. "They'll hurt an attacker more, and they don't require a permit."  
  
Foggy had sounded surprised but happy and said, "Shit, Matt, you're kind of awesome when you're violent, yeah, that'll work," and had smacked himself in the face. Matt was very worried for his mental health. He was discreetly searching for psychologists in the area.  
  
Matt had trained, and it had hurt, but he managed to make himself instead think about Anne Sexton poems-- _the truth the dead know_ as a phrase echoing in his skull--, and they were complicated enough to distract from the constant tang of a Fogwell's without Dad.  
  
And then Monday had come, and Devyn was not in class, and Dr Qasim had asked Matt to please speak to her after class.  
  
He followed her into her office, stomach clenched.  
  
"I got an email this morning from a student, explaining that because of words said by your owner, he no longer feels safe to attend my class," she said. "I just would like to know if you have any insight on the subject. If not, that's perfectly fine, these things happen. Students make the most ridiculous excuses. Remember Rochelle the other day, the one I threw out because she refused to address you by name or directly at all? That 'oh, it wouldn't be proper, I'm just a grammarian' excuse? I'm quite used to bullshit, and this smells of it."  
  
Matt relaxed. Oh. Then he felt offended on Foggy's behalf, and since Dr Qasim was so very staunchly an abolitionist who put her money where her mouth was (and wasn't that a fascinating 'compassionate conservative' type of oxymoron), he decided to not dance around it in the slightest.  
  
"Devyn has been cornering me after your class since the first week," he began, and she went rigid and furious. "Things were beginning to escalate to physical touch, and my owner caught word of the situation, and decided to deal with it first by attempting to talk him into backing off a slave that wasn't his, like a normal person." God, Matt despised poachers.  
  
"Unfortunately," he went on, "Devyn reacted to this by insulting me, and since my owner had implicitly given me the right to freedom of speech, I..said some things which were not advisable, but true."  
  
"What type of things?"  
  
"I--pointed out that the definition of friends is between persons, and since I am not a person, I couldn't be, and that by trying to use me to validate his self-image as a good person, coming in to rescue the crying, shivering, emaciated princess from the tower, he was both deluding himself and far overstepping his bounds. I explained how the world really worked, that people who run around trying to fix all the problems really just feed into them, that capitalism accounts for abolitionists, and in fact the slave sector of the economy adores the majority of them," and then Matt knew he was rambling. "I ended it by informing him that not taking responsibility for the situation was what everyone does, and it's why the situation will never change."  
  
There was a startled, soft silence. Then Dr Qasim said, "Wow, my wife didn't mention you were so eloquent when she described you."  
  
Her wife? Oh, was she the Martie woman from the disability office? She must be; he racked his brain for any other woman who had recently met him. Dr Qasim was definitely not at the Nelson gatherings, so it was very unlikely for her to be married to any of Foggy's female relatives.  
  
Then Dr Qasim said, "Of course, you don't have to answer this, but can I ask what you think of your owner? How did he react to this, if you can answer?"  
  
Matt was glad he could. Dr Qasim was so intelligent, and she shared so much of her knowledge, he wanted to repay her by being the best student possible.  
  
"He is very kind," Matt said. "I didn't realize it at first because of a failing of mine, but he wants--he wants a lawyer-doll, and I'm just so happy to be given the opportunity. He felt my words were extremely poignant for the context."  
  
Dr Qasim was silent. Then she said, "You minored in Poetry in college, right? Based on your transcripts?"  
  
"Yes, Dr Qasim," he said, despite the fact that she'd briskly ordered everyone to not address her by name or title or at all unless it was an emergency, and flinched. Bad habits, Matt.  
  
"Have you ever read _We Alone_ by Alice Walker?"  
  
Matt tilted his head. If he had, he didn't remember it. "No," he said.  
  
Dr Qasim recited softly, " _We alone_  
_can devalue gold_  
 _by not caring_  
 _if it falls or rises_  
 _in the marketplace._  
 _Wherever there is gold_  
 _there is a chain, you know,_  
 _and if your chain_  
 _is gold_  
 _so much the worse_  
 _for you._  
 _Feathers, shells,_  
 _and sea-shaped stones_  
 _are all as rare._  
 _This could be our revolution:_  
 _To love what is plentiful_  
 _as much as_  
 _what is scarce._ "  
  
Matt sucked in a soft breath and resolved to memorize it. It was elegant, and he could already feel the layers like a very thick book.  
  
Dr Qasim sat there, poised, and then her shoulders slumped and she said, "Well, I'll be sure to blacklist the student as well. No-one is allowed to use my class as a vehicle to torture other students."  
  
"Thank you," Matt said, astonished. She really did stick to her principles.  
  
"Well, I'm sure you have class," and Matt stood up and smiled and left.  
  
Barely Legal was just outside, and grabbed his hand quickly, squeezing, the concern and comfort visceral.  
  
[Library NOW.]  
  
Matt sighed and followed it.  
  
\--  
  
[How badly did your owner hurt you?]  
  
[He didn't.]  
  
[Don't lie to me, I was at the end of the hallway, I can read lips, I know what you said, and it was great, it was like those speeches by that one guy with the weird first name, but he had to have hurt you for that!]  
  
[He didn't. Foggy wants a doll, not just a study aid.]  
  
[A--oh, it figures, you're so pretty, you'd make a doll. You lucky fucking asshole. Goddamnit, Matt, why do you get all the nice things? But he didn't look like one of those doll owners.]  
  
[Can you explain?] Matt knew vaguely what Foggy looked like, had touched his face, but maybe it saw something he couldn't perceive.  
  
[Even Summer's owner looks like a serial killer. It creeped me out to look at him. They all do. You can tell there's something not normal with them at first glance, if you can see. Something about their eyes. We're slaves, the whole point is that we're the seething underbelly, it's not natural to keep us in the packaging for so long.]  
  
Matt blinked. Huh. Well, that was a different perspective.  
  
Its stomach growled loudly, and Matt winced.  
  
[Maybe I could ask my owner if I could have extra food and give it to you?]  
  
[The fuck does he care about me? He looked at me like those assholes in those RSPCA ads look at the dogs.]  
  
[I could ask him, and if I phrased it as me just wanting extra food, he would probably approve,] Matt protested. [He likes me eating. Not as a feeding fetish, either, I checked.]  
  
[No, he's got the other fetish.]  
  
[Apparently not as much as I originally thought.]  
  
[WTF?]  
  
[He forced me to admit I don't like sex. But who does, anyway? Only free people. But then he said he'd never do it again. I don't understand why al the way, but he seems sincere.]  
  
[You must feel like the luckiest slave on this hellscape,] and it sounded both affectionate and abjectly furious. Matt knew the combination. He'd been the less-lucky slave before.  
  
[I am. I think it's because of the way I explained reward conditioning--he wants me to be his doll, he's using the reward conditioning to make me enjoy being owned by him more.]  
  
An understanding silence, then: [Why don't you care that I'm not actually all sweet and obedient? I shit-talk my owners to you all the time.]  
  
[I'm not your overseer. That's not my job.] And in a way he almost envied her. Sometimes owners had told him he could struggle but not snap the silk tie, or whatever it was, during sex, and it had been strangely soothing to be able to writhe.  
  
One had even told him to scream that he hated it, to beg him to stop, to cry out for help, to sob that it hurt and he'd do anything to make it just end, and it was cathartic in a way. He'd given Matt bags of cheese popcorn and a little can of Dr Pepper after every time he used him, and then let him just do laundry until it was time he wanted to use Matt again.  
  
But Foggy really hadn't had any sex with Matt again, and every time Matt had tried to see if he could trigger it, by just very carefully leaning in to kiss him, ready for a slap, Foggy had just repeated over and over again that he would never, ever have sex with Matt again. It was so sweet, Matt almost cried.  
  
[You're not bullshitting me.]  
  
[I'm not.]  
  
It went silent and stiff. Then it asked, [I AM very hungry...]  
  
[When was the last time you ate?]  
  
[Last night, and only a quarter portion, and that's the only meal I get a day. They're chipping away at it until I break.]  
  
Matt felt alarmed. Starvation worked on all humans, eventually. [I'll ask Foggy today, and if he approves, I'll get you food tomorrow. Just hold on and don't do anything stupid.]  
  
[Doing stupid things makes life worth living. But I guess...] it trailed off. And then slowly, sweetly, it brushed its hand along Matt's, fingers cold and skin papery, and Matt let it. He knew that was thanks.  
  
[I expected you to be more snobby and holier-than-thou. But even though you're a doll, you goddamn asshole, you're not so bad. Now help me with this second subjunctive, I suck at it.]  
  
Matt smiled and went to help it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Molly Peacock's "Putting A Burden Down", here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/64615726310/putting-a-burden-down


	37. once I was beautiful. now I am myself

Matt came to lunch looking determined.  
  
Foggy sipped at his water, trying to stay calm. It was mostly working, until sometimes something would slip--Matt's neck would look some way or Foggy would stare at his lips too long or his hair would catch the light, and Foggy would remember raping him and feel sick and panicked.  
  
But he hadn't done it again, and that was, at least, progress. Maybe Foggy should get himself some sort of chips for how many days he didn't renege and rape Matt. Like sober coins.  
  
In the meantime, Matt slid into the seat across from him--Matt had clarified before to Foggy, over the weekend, once asked, that he didn't mind sitting on benches and chairs in places like the cafeteria, where otherwise you had to balance your plate on the floor and risk getting it stepped on or taken away--and took a deep breath.  
  
"Foggy," he said slowly. "May I please take with me some food from the apartment for in-between classes?"  
  
Foggy blinked. Something he was doing was working, because that was great.  
  
"Yeah, of course," he said. "Thanks--thanks for asking me. I wouldn't have guessed that otherwise," because Matt had some Olympic talent in denying his own wants and needs.  
  
Matt smiled and murmured, ducking his head, "Thank you, Foggy," and kissed his hand and went to navigate getting food. Foggy watched, and it was almost sad, the way Matt was very careful and skirted around people, gravitating towards places without a line because people felt free to cut in front of him, constantly, and always jumped back at the slightest sign of movement, so nobody touched him.  
  
But Matt somehow was patient and skilled enough to get himself food--another salad, he seemed to really like then, but today he also snagged a chicken-fried steak with gravy--and navigated his way back.  
  
He ate, smiling brightly at the taste, and then Foggy asked him about what the fuck chicken-fried steak even was, and Matt happily explained.  
  
Things were getting better, Foggy reminded himself. But still, he really had to call Anna or something in a few weeks, because he wasn't sure what to do long-term.  
  
\--  
  
Matt was so glad he could sneak it some food. Technically, he shouldn't be sneaking any slave food, but he could make an exception. Besides, as a doll, he was protected enough that he wasn't terribly worried. He had the feeling that if one of its owners caught him and tried to hit him or something, Foggy would _destroy_ them.  
  
He managed some protein bars that someone had given Foggy, and a box of blackberries, and even a baked potato with now-congealed cheese and bacon bits.  
  
Barely Legal devoured them, curled up on the floor of the slave bathroom in the library, Matt inside a stall, standing. It was not cleaned often.  
  
[Thanks,] it tapped. [I felt like I was starting to like it, that's how hungry I was.]  
  
Shit. It took a long time, Matt knew, to get to that point. [Will they stop, or do something different, long-term?]  
  
[No. But I will break and give in eventually.]  
  
Matt frowned. He didn't want it to break. [If you capitulate willingly, you won't break. Bend, not break.]  
  
[Thanks, but no thanks.]  
  
It was worrying, but that was how the next three weeks passed, and Matt had other things to focus on.  
  
Foggy was of course treating him like his doll, and it was so nice. Matt was allowed to wrap himself up in any of the blankets, and Foggy liked it when he made himself tea he liked, instead of the tea he had had the mask like, and when he offered his opinions on _Firefly_ or explained why certain food choices were bad on _Chopped_ Foggy liked that too.  
  
Sometimes Foggy would have little jolts of panic, and Matt wasn't sure how to soothe them besides showing Foggy that he was fine, his doll was perfectly intact, mint condition. He hadn't yet found a good enough psychologist--some of them specified they only worked with particular disorders, and Matt didn't know about about any of them to diagnose Foggy with one in particular.  
  
He had found some research on the use of dolls in therapy, and they suggested that especially for sick or lonely people, having a doll could provide a lot of support. Dolls could be cuddled, spoiled, and act in friendly, sweet ways without having to put them on a work schedule or share them with anyone else. In addition, children in particular in therapy used dolls to help act out emotions and events, and work out their feelings.  
  
Matt tried his best to allow, and even nudge Foggy into, using his doll status properly. Foggy hadn't let him in his bed yet, but Matt was confident that maybe if he did really well on the midterms in a few days then he might get that. Foggy did like that Matt was intelligent and academically successful, and to Matt's surprise he did genuinely enjoy law school. It was like being a philosophy major, you weren't learning things that were especially practical or important, but he was _good_ at it, and that was fun.  
  
Matt finished updating part of the list of stimuli--putting down morning yoga on positive, hoping it would entice Foggy to ask him to demonstrate sometime, and Matt could perhaps get Foggy to cuddle him from that--when there came a sharp knocking on the door.  
  
He rose, calling to Foggy, "I got it," and opened the door and immediately wanted to fall to his knees.  
  
It was Miss Sharpe, saying with a smirk in her voice, "Franklin, I've come to check on you!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "You, Doctor Martin" by Anne Sexton, here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/90257714203/you-doctor-martin-walk-from-breakfast-to


	38. I am not wrong: wrong is not my name, my name is my own my own my own

Foggy was up in a second.  
  
Shit-fuck, shit, shit, god fucking dammit. Rosalind was here. Nothing good came out of that, and Rosalind around Matt--  
  
He raced to the door, and saw Rosalind in one of her suits, and a dark leather purse, staring at Matt, her lips pursed.  
  
"Franklin, child, shouldn't your slave be kneeling?"  
  
Foggy took a deep breath, and glanced out of the corner of his eyes at Matt, and wondered if he was scared to be standing in front of Rosalind.  
  
Matt didn't look scared. He looked like he had when he knelt in the morning classes, full of dignity and calm.  
  
Huh. Well, then. "No," Foggy said flatly to her. "Why are you here?"  
  
"To make sure my present went over well," she said brightly, and pushed her way in. "Let's have coffee, Franklin," and pushed over to the kitchen, sitting in Matt's seat.  
  
Matt's head stayed pointed at Foggy.  
  
He took a deep breath, sighed, and said, "Fifteen minutes, I've got more studying to do."  
  
"Well, it's good to see you're applying yourself," she said, smiling. It looked like a crocodile. "I've just been so happy that you've decided to take after me."  
  
Foggy glared at her and breathed out slowly. "I'm planning to become a defense attorney to help people fight an unjust, corrupt legal system," he said coolly. "Not to amass money and splurge it on hurting people."  
  
Rosalind snorted. "Oh, you'll be cured of that idealism soon, I've no doubt" she said, and then clicked her fingers at Matt and snapped, "Coffee for me and Franklin."  
  
Matt said, polite but somehow distant, "I'm terribly sorry, Miss Sharpe, but my owner's name is Foggy, and he prefers I only follow his orders."  
  
Foggy took a step back and then felt his own face curl with startled joy. He felt warm all over.  
  
That was deliberate. That was intentional. It was a message, and it was Matt telling Foggy _I'm on your side_.  
  
Matt really wasn't helpless.  
  
Rosalind's head whipped around; she looked both interested and pissed off. "So he likes a slave that doesn't know its manners any more?"  
  
"Foggy, my owner, prefers me to follow his orders only, Miss Sharpe," Matt said.  
  
Foggy cleared his throat. "Uh, get one yourself too," he told Matt. He didn't actually want to antagonize Rosalind too much, as fun as it would be. And coffee would give him something to clench his hands around.  
  
Matt moved gracefully, murmuring, "Of course, Foggy," and went to go brew.  
  
" _Foggy_ ," Rosalind said. "How fascinating. I suppose you find 'sir' gauche, Franklin?"  
  
Foggy gritted his teeth. "What do you actually want to know?" because she'd tease it out, and this way it would be minimally painful.  
  
"Oh, how well it's all going--Columbia, your new slave, living off-campus. I remember my first apartment," she said, wistful. "Of course, I had more rugs, but that can be easily fixed."  
  
Foggy opened his mouth to snap something and couldn't come up with anything that wasn't a frustrated scream, but Matt rescued him as he elegantly walked over and kneeled next to Foggy, sitting up, his hand reaching up to trail along Foggy's fingers.  
  
The touch didn't feel seductive, or sexual at all. It felt like--support? Soothing?  
  
Matt then said gently, "I'm terribly sorry, Miss Sharpe, my owner has no space or desire for any rugs at this time."  
  
Foggy went on with, "And Columbia's fine. It's great. We're both doing absolutely great."  
  
"Both of you? You think it'll make a decent legal assistant?"  
  
"Matt will make a brilliant attorney if and when he chooses to be," Foggy said firmly. That was just factually true. "Matt is actually better at it than me."  
  
Rosalind arched a plucked eyebrow and Matt distracted her by kissing Foggy's hand. Foggy realized that Matt was working with Foggy to keep her off her feet.  
  
The coffee maker beeped--it was one of those very quick ones--and Matt rose, pouring three cups of coffee, making it with cream and sugar like Foggy liked, and only sugar, like he liked.  
  
He carried the two mugs to the table as Foggy stared into Rosalind's eyes, suddenly more confident. He'd fought the police with words for Matt, he could fight her.  
  
Then he politely knelt next to Foggy, and sipped his coffee.  
  
Rosalind snapped her fingers at him. "Coffee," she said, as if speaking to Matt in more than one word at a time would be too much for his fragile constitution.  
  
Matt said, still in that politely deferential but somehow iron tone, "I'm terribly sorry, Miss Sharpe, Foggy, my owner, prefers that I only follow his orders, and he has not ordered me to bring you coffee, merely to make it, which is fulfilled by pouring it into its mug on the countertop."  
  
Foggy grinned. Matt was being--Matt was being his equivalent of _snarky_. Matt was talking back to her, _for Foggy_. They were a team.  
  
Inspired by Matt's apparent lack of fear of the wrath of Rosalind Sharpe, when he she turned her head to Foggy to look outraged, he shrugged and said, "It's on the counter if you want to get it."  
  
Rosalind turned purple and then calmed, got up, and got it. She looked crafty as she opened their fridge and yanked out the creamer Matt had put back inside, and poured it in.  
  
"So, Franklin," she said as she drank. "I see that you've got an excessive quantity of strawberries in your fridge. They for you?"  
  
Foggy felt hideously embarrassed, remembering against his will every single other comment she'd made, every jab at his weight. It had started since before he could remember and nobody, not one person, had been able to make her stop.  
  
"Miss Sharpe, the strawberries have been designated for me," Matt said. "My owner, Foggy, understands that your generous gift is more than capable of responding to positive attention and standard reward conditioning, rather than the method of primarily hand gestures favored by the 1980s."  
  
Foggy gaped. Did he just call her _old_ and out of touch to her face? Goddamn.  
  
Rosalind said, frostily, "In the 1980s, slaves understood their places."  
  
"In modern times, Miss Sharpe," and something about the way Matt kept saying that was meaningful. Had Rosalind made him call her Mistress or something during the test-drive week? "It is left up to owners, such as Foggy, to decide the appropriate places for slaves."  
  
Foggy felt like he was in some sort of amazing dream. _Nobody_ stood up to Rosalind, not successfully, not like this. Dad always wanted Foggy to have a 'healthy and positive relationship' with her, and Anna had always said it was none of her business, and everyone else wasn't used to dealing with people that reserved portions of their nastiness for their families.  
  
Rosalind looked at Foggy. "So at least it's good with words," she said, sharply. "I see you like that sort of juvenile thing. Tell me, Foggy, does he always insult people for you?"  
  
Foggy glared at her. "Matt is one of the most patient human beings I have ever met," he said. "The fact that you can't see it because you're too blinded by your own prejudices is just pathetic."  
  
Rosalind _gaped_ for a moment, and then smirked. "Well, I'm glad you're enjoying yourself. God only knows that when I had it, it used its tongue for better things than insulting its superiors."  
  
Foggy felt cold and furious. How _dare_ she talk about raping Matt like that. "Leave," he said flatly. "We're done with this conversation. I'm done with you. You've never done anything but insult and condescend to me throughout my entire life, and maybe I had to put up with it before, but I don't now."  
  
Not if Matt, someone who was as far below Rosalind in power as could be, could stand up to her. Foggy felt like he was standing tall and strong, held up by Matt, who had leaned his head on Foggy's thigh, something reassuring in the gesture.  
  
"Oh, Franklin," she said with a sigh. "It's been hard to get to know you, and I've taken so much time off. Do you know, I flew in from Paris to come see you specifically? Why don't you appreciate my guidance more? I could tell you so much."  
  
Matt's hand tapped on Foggy's thigh, and he leaned down. "What is it?"  
  
Was Matt going to begin freaking out? Had her words triggered some sort of flashback?  
  
"Miss Sharpe is not telling the truth," Matt murmured. "She did not fly from Paris to specifically see _you_."  
  
Foggy stared, and then grinned. Holy fuck, this lie-detector thing was coming in handy. "Thanks, Matt," and without thinking he combed a hand through Matt's hair. Then he turned to Rosalind, who was watching with interest.  
  
"I'm done with this conversation and our relationship," Foggy said, feeling like Daniel when he'd finally seen the light of the cave's exit. "I don't have any patience for rapists. Get the fuck out."  
  
"Don't be so rude--"  
  
Matt rose in a second, and had his coffee cup on the table.  
  
"Miss Sharpe, I'm terribly sorry, my owner, Foggy, asked you to leave."  
  
She stared at him. "Don't talk to me like that."  
  
"Miss Sharpe, if you remain any longer, I will be forced to stop you from trespassing on Foggy's property."  
  
She stared at Foggy, slowly placing the mug all the way down. "You're serious, Franklin."  
  
"Yes," he said, suddenly so desperate to finish this out. Part of him was cringing, but so much more of him wanted to just be free of her. "Get out and don't come back."  
  
She started to walk to the door, heels clicking, but not confidently. "I'll be back," she said. "You don't really mean this. You can't possibly think you'll have any decent connections once you graduate, not without me."  
  
Foggy shrugged. "I didn't need your help," he said. "And I don't need it now."  
  
She turned to glare at both of them. "I'll be watching, Franklin," and then she finally fucking _left_.  
  
Foggy slumped down almost immediately. "Jesus," he said. "Is it even really trespassing? Fuck."  
  
Matt's head was at the door. "She's out of the building," he said, and then shook his head irritably, clearing up her mug, and told Foggy, "I am not sure at the moment. It seemed to have worked."  
  
"Yeah. Yeah! Matt, that was awesome," Foggy said, feeling full of light. But then he felt afraid, and chewed on his lip. "Shit, though, she said she'll be watching..."  
  
Matt snorted. "So much time with her head to the pavement, it's a mystery a truck hasn't run over her."  
  
Foggy clapped his hands to his mouth and then cracked up hard. "Oh," he wheezed out, "Oh, fuck, Matt, you're so funny when you're actually being you. God. Wow."  
  
Then he felt overcome by happiness. "I just--Matt, nobody's ever stood up to her before," he said. "Nobody. Candace tried once and Rosalind made her cry and feel bad about herself for, like, a year."  
  
Matt's mouth pressed in a thin line. "I dislike anyone who refuses to call someone by their name," he said.  
  
"You're really not scared of her at all," Foggy said, feeling something cry out in relief inside of him. If Matt wasn't scared of her, he didn't have to be, either.  
  
Matt snorted again, and said contemptuously, "It is very difficult to find someone with such pedestrian sexual tastes and a noted lack of social sensibility frightening. Particularly when they appear to be unable to see my owner for who he truly is."  
  
Foggy pushed past his mild horror at the fact that Matt was calling her boring in bed. "Which is?"  
  
"Someone who does not believe in the 'slaves are merely Pavlovian organic robots, unable to follow complex orders' nonsense," Matt said. "Someone with a better grasp of the spirit of the law, and far more professional with its undertakings already. Someone who matters, who will use his talents for good, rather than hoarding money. Someone who values his moral principles and keeps his word."  
  
Foggy gaped. "I--shit, can I hug you," he said. He couldn't think of anything else he could do to express how grateful he was. He couldn't remember anyone ever saying that Rosalind was just plain _wrong_ about him. Anna muttered that she was mistaken, and Dad always said she wasn't very good at saying what she really meant.  
  
Matt came over and murmured, "Yes, Foggy," and then Foggy hugged him as tightly as he could.  
  
"Shit, just, remember, reward for being alive," he babbled.  
  
"Yes, Foggy, I remember," Matt said, and pressed his head against Foggy's shoulder.  
  
"They always wanted me to have a 'positive social relationship' with her," Foggy blurted out.  
  
Matt said delicately after a minute, "I am sure it is impossible to have a positive social relationship between two people when the one with more power is unwilling to treat the other in good faith, and intends to only satisfy her own appetite for power."  
  
Foggy blinked, and hugged Matt tighter, and felt so, so lucky, so happy. God. Maybe he and Matt would be some sort of friends after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also from June Jordan's "Poem About My Rights".


	39. open arms saying, I forgive you, all

Matt realized he needed to accelerate any long-term strategy the day after midterms had ended, when he next was able to chat to Barely Legal.  
  
It was shivering, even with the quilted jacket he could hear it wearing, and its hands sounded smaller, thinner, as it said hello.  
  
Matt bit his lip and took a chance. He pulled its jacket off of it, put it between them, and hugged it tightly, the way Foggy did to him.  
  
[What's that for?]  
  
[You're cold. And this way, you're only touching your jacket, not me.]  
  
It relaxed into it.  
  
Matt thought and thought, and before he could say anything, it tapped out, sounding agonized, [I just can't deal with it any more. I know what's going to happen, I know I'm just going to break and then it'll happen all over again and keep happening until I'm their stupid dad's stupid paralegal and get fucked over his desk until I fucking get too expensive to take to the hospital when one of his idiot kids gets another harebrained scheme and breaks a bone and then I'll be just some fucking zombie and nothing will matter anymore!]  
  
Matt held it tighter. It felt small and fragile in his arms. He bit his lip.  
  
[What if you were owned by someone different?]  
  
[...What do you mean?]  
  
[If Foggy owned you, you'd eat,] and he realized with a jolt that that was the endgame, that was what he needed to chase after. Not sleeping in Foggy's bed or anything like that. Nothing selfish. A good, realistic goal.  
  
[What?]  
  
[Even if he hated you you'd eat. When he thought I was disgusting because of Miss Sharpe owning me before gifting me to him, he couldn't stand to even talk to me most of the time, but he fed me.]  
  
[You're sure--]  
  
[Even when I didn't deserve any food, he gave me plenty, he'd feed you too.]  
  
[But--shit, Matt, you're his doll, of course he feeds you.]  
  
[I wasn't always, and you'd be, I don't know, a house-slave. He'd feed you.]  
  
[You're sure?]  
  
[I am sure. Even if he wanted to have sex with you it wouldn't be too bad. I could teach you all the tricks I know to get through it. And I don't know that he would, either. He's not attracted to you.]  
  
[Because I look like I'm dying,] it pointed out. But it seemed hesitant. [How would you even get it so that he owned me?]  
  
Matt thoughts raced. [I'll call Summer. I'll ask Foggy if I can call her and I'll explain the situation and ask her for help.]  
  
[Why would her owner help me? Or you?]  
  
[He doesn't care about money, it wouldn't occur to him to care about spending money on buying you and immediately giving you to Foggy, not if Summer asked him, she's his doll, he likes indulging her, and she likes me, she always said I was her favorite because she never doubted I'd be something great, she'll be happy I'm a doll too, and she believes in rewards. She helped me when I called and asked her before, too, and she said she'd help me again if things deteriorated so much a second time.]  
  
Matt felt full of purpose now. It was a completely insane plan, and hinged on more things than any plan should, but so was the plan the time that Summer and him had had to kill that trafficker and steal his car to get back to Winter's house, and they'd done it then too.  
  
Sometimes the crazier the plan was, the more it succeeded.  
  
Matt grinned, and was about to stop hugging her when he felt a sharp slap on the back of his head, and then there was shouting.  
  
First, there was the shouting of what were presumably Barely Legal's male owner, who was screaming at Matt--something about insolent stupid little sluts, very standard fare--and then there was _Foggy_ , out of nowhere, he had probably come to fetch Matt, shouting too, something about get your hands off of him this fucking instant, I will fucking sue you, how dare you.  
  
Matt let go of Barely Legal slowly, deliberately, tapping as frantically as he could through the jacket onto its sternum, [DON'T WORRY.]  
  
Foggy ran over and grabbed Matt by the arms as he pulled him backwards. Matt winced, expecting punishment, his ears ringing a bit, but Foggy kept snarling at the other owner instead, threatening lawsuits and getting him kicked out of Columbia and the like, don't talk about Matt like that you asshole.  
  
The other owner yanked away Barely Legal, its heart pounding painfully, and Matt felt renewed determination. He was going to help it properly, starting today.  
  
\--  
  
Foggy made sure to not break eye contact with the utter piece of shit dragging away that poor slave until he left the building.  
  
People around were staring, and he was still holding Matt by the arms, having pulled him out of the danger as fast as he could.  
  
Matt. Shit. Okay, Foggy thought, get him to the wellness center, make sure he wasn't hurt, and then home. Fuck Torts. They could skip it again, it was right after midterms anyway, they deserved to treat themselves.  
  
He let go of Matt, who slowly stood up on his own, one hand coming to comb through his head where that fucker had hit him.  
  
"No blood," Matt murmured, rubbing his fingers together, and Foggy paled.  
  
"Okay, let's get that checked out," he said firmly, putting Matt's hand inside his elbow and checking that he had grabbed his cane and bag, and going on a fast walk to the wellness center.  
  
Matt murmured halfway there, having apparently regained his senses, "I'm fine, Foggy, there's no need."  
  
"There *is* a need," Foggy snapped. God, why didn't Matt have any self-preservation instincts?  
  
Then he stopped walking and realized he was angry at Matt because he was scared for him, and also that Matt _did_ have self-preservation instincts--he had carefully tried to make Foggy happy with him, hadn't he?  
  
Foggy sighed. "Matt," he said, and then stopped. "I'm worried that the hit to your head was hard enough to seriously hurt you, because head injuries like that can happen."  
  
Matt's mouth made an 'ah' shape and then he said, gently, "I don't think it was anything serious. My head hurts only somewhat where he slapped me. I've been hit harder than that before in the head with no long-term effects at all."  
  
That really wasn't reassuring. "Still, let's see if the wellness center has any helpful information."  
  
\--  
  
They didn't, they just flatly told Foggy that slaves should be given an icepack and monitored for any signs of serious damage, and probably rest would be good if he could manage to budget it.  
  
Foggy seethed a little at the way their gazes slid over Matt's face like he was a cardboard cutout of a celebrity at a movie theater, like he wasn't human and there to be addressed, but then they went home, and as Foggy went to grab an icepack and Matt lay on the bed, obediently, Matt called gently, "Foggy, may I ask you for a favor?"  
  
That was progress. "Sure, anything," he said distractedly, getting a towel to wrap it in.  
  
He brought it back and gave it to Matt, who moved it to the back of his head and rolled over so that it stayed in place.  
  
Then Matt said, very carefully, "There's a situation going on with the other slave that you saw me interacting with. I apologize for my insolence with the inappropriate contact I hadn't been given permission for--"  
  
"It's fine, dude, go on," Foggy said. "Seriously, you're friends, I'm actually kind of glad you hugged her."  
  
Matt paused and went on, "Its owners have been cyclically starving it to force compliance with it when they want to have sex with it, and it's getting to the point where unless stopped, it might have heart problems relatively soon and is experiencing extreme psychological stress."  
  
Foggy went cold. Shit, that sounded horrible. "What favor do you want me to do?"  
  
Matt bit his lip. "If I may, I would like it if I could call Summer and ask her to arrange it with her owner so that he could buy the slave you saw me interacting with, and then immediately gift it to you permanently, Foggy."  
  
Foggy blinked. "You want me to own her?"  
  
"I know that you may find yourself at the zenith of slave ownership, given your political leanings," Matt said, now sounding almost charming, voice infused with something sweet, "But I can assure you, owning two slaves is more than twice the benefits. I can ensure that any problems would be taken care of in full. And I know that it would be better off with you, not with its current owners."  
  
Foggy thought about it. "Why 'it'?"  
  
"It prefers to be referred to as 'it' and not 'she', Foggy," Matt murmured.  
  
Foggy couldn't imagine why, but then he considered it. Matt thought he was a kind owner. Matt was worried about his friend, and Matt didn't seem like the type to exaggerate this situation.  
  
And the image of that poor slave, so skinny and starved-looking. The shut lips. The cigarette burn scars.  
  
That settled it, then.  
  
"Okay," Foggy said. "Let's do this." and he went to grab the phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from "Blues" by Elizabeth Alexander, here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/98986986691/i-am-lazy-the-laziest-girl-in-the-world-i-sleep


	40. someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness

Matt opened the conversation with, "I have this completely insane idea, please help me, Summer."  
  
There was a pregnant pause and then she laughed, and said in that tone of startled delight, "I love conversations that begin this way! Go on."  
  
"There's this slave, and if it doesn't get sold soon it's going to die, I know it, and if it was owned by my owner it wouldn't die, Foggy would for sure not put it down unless he really had to, and I asked him, he said yes, but it hinges on you and Winter."  
  
"Hmm? Explain."  
  
"If the plan works, Winter buys the slave from its owners, and then gifts it to Foggy, and Foggy owns it permanently and so at least it won't die right now."  
  
There was silence. "What incentive do I have to offer my owner for doing this? Describe the slave in question."  
  
"It's intelligent, it's as smart as me, it can keep up for sure, it--it's strong, and defiant, and it's been starved cyclically for years and years but it's still fighting strong, it--Barely Legal--"  
  
She howled in laughter. "Barely--why Barely Legal?"  
  
"The number 18 repeats in its number and it's going to be a paralegal," Matt explained. "Or, was, anyway."  
  
She giggled, and snorted out, "Oh, Matt, you are a _trip_. Well, this is nuts, the whole idea of any slave being a paralegal is nuts, and does your owner still want you to be a lawyer?"  
  
"Yes, Foggy wants me to be a lawyer, I'm his doll now," Matt explained.  
  
A silence. "Your owner wants a _lawyer-doll_ ," and there she sounded suspicious.  
  
"Yes." Matt said, hoping she believed him.  
  
"You're quite sure he's not just...using what you want against you?"  
  
"He gave me strawberries--half an entire pound--after he got it out of me that I hated having sex with him," Matt explained, his face smiling. "He's that sweet. I was so mistaken, I had so many false perceptions, but now I understand."  
  
"Hmm," she said. "It's--well, the probabilities of a first-time slave owner, a broke law school student from a blue collar background, someone who drove you to a nervous breakdown, wanting a lawyer-doll, especially when I've never even heard of a slave lawyer before...I don't need to tell you it's low. It's very low. It's 'getting killed by a shark in Idaho' low. But it can happen. My own existence is very improbable."  
  
Matt blinked and waited for her to go on.  
  
"I suppose," she said slowly, "I suppose, now that we're truly on the same level, though not in terms of money...has he thought of where to house it? Can he afford the upkeep?"  
  
Matt paused. "I don't know about his financials," he confessed. "I'm not sure. I'd--I'd do anything, I'd even try to have him sell me back to the auction agency if that was necessary," and he immediately knew he'd gone insane if he was willing to even whisper things like that. Foggy wasn't in the room, had left before Matt had even first spoken, but still.   
  
"I can't let another one die," he said, clarity breaking over him like dawnrise. "I--I let Charlotte die. I tried so hard but I couldn't save her. But I can save Barely Legal, I can save it, I know I can."  
  
A deep sigh. "Matt, I will conference in Winter and see what we can do if you promise me one thing."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You stop blaming yourself for someone's misfortunes the moment you let yourself like them."  
  
Matt bit his lip. "I don't--"  
  
"Stop talking this moment."  
  
He did.  
  
"Now, the practical details aside, I can see that you are not used to being a doll, and while it will be delightful to see if we can pull this off in such a short amount of time as possible, you must let go of your guilt and self-blaming. You did your best to calm down that owner, and you're doing beyond your best to help this slave. Now say it out loud with me: it is possible to make no mistakes and still lose. That is life."  
  
"It is possible to make no mistakes and still lose. That is life," he recited obediently.   
  
"It is, in fact, slavery," she said, matter-of-fact. "Our whole lives are losing over and over again. Now I'm going to conference in my owner and you speak when spoken to, I don't know what mood he's in, he's been in Jersey all week."  
  
Matt was silent.  
  
"Mm? Summer?" and it was that familiar voice.  
  
"Sir, Matt has called me with an intriguing proposition. He has suggested we buy a slave and instantly gift it to Matt's owner so that it can live somewhat longer."  
  
There was a silence. "I suppose," Winter said slowly, "That Matt deserves a friend. Though I'm not sure what he's done to be rewarded so much."  
  
"He's a doll now, Herr Besitzer," she said smoothly. She called him that when she really, really wanted something. "That is a lifetime achievement."  
  
"Indeed it is. Alright, make the redeyes, get the necessary info, we're going in."  
  
Matt made a tiny, involuntary noise of shock and happiness. Oh God, this could actually work. He wouldn't have to live with another emptiness in his life where another slave should have been.  
  
Summer asked the number and the location of Barely Legal, and got as much on its condition from Matt as he could describe.   
  
"Now, Matt," he said, and Matt snapped to attention. "Go get your owner the phone, he's the one that has to be persuaded to agree to the terms. Good job getting to be someone's doll. I'm glad I invested in you."  
  
"Thank you, sir," Matt whispered, and stood up.  
  
\--  
  
Foggy had caught a couple of words only from the phonecall. He kept thinking about practical problems, about where she--it--she--it, dammit he didn't want to call a person 'it' but pronouns were a thing you had to respect, he remembered that from college--would sleep. How would he pay for her law school, too? Shit.  
  
But then he couldn't help but feel warm and full of fire whenever he remembered that Matt had _asked him for this_. Matt had to have been desperate beyond belief, to finally start trusting Foggy with real things.  
  
And he couldn't help but remember the glimpse he'd gotten of that poor slave being dragged away from Matt. The sunken eyeballs. The thin hair. The blue fingers.  
  
Fuck, he couldn't do nothing. Fuck, fuck, fuck.  
  
He took the phone from Matt, and heard a windchime-pretty female voice, the same one who had talked to Matt when he'd lost his shit. Summer.  
  
"Sir, it's so pleasant to yet again speak to you, what an honor," she greeted brightly, and then there was a strange male voice with a bizarre accent. Some of the words were Russian-accented, some of them were distinctly New York.  
  
"So I hear you're up to the challenge Matt has proposed," and at least the guy--Winter--called him _Matt_.  
  
"Yeah," Foggy said, clearing his throat. "I can do something to help her--it--so I have to."  
  
A complete, startled silence at that, and then the male voice said, "I give complete handling of the negotiations over to my slave Summer in this matter" and hung up.  
  
She went on, voice bright and charming, "Well, Mister Nelson, I'm so glad to hear you're up to the challenge. Do you have any demands to make, to start off?"  
  
"Demands?"  
  
"Well, Mister Nelson, Winter's just emailed me more instructions, and it appears that he's now interested enough in this slave that we're buying it one way or another. Gifting it is quite less certain."  
  
Foggy felt cold all over. "What?"  
  
He couldn't have just helped get that horribly starved person thrown to the wolves like that. Matt couldn't have--  
  
Matt didn't see them as wolves. Matt talked about them fondly, wistfully, like he loved them. Matt didn't see anything wrong with what they had done to him.   
  
Shit-fuck.  
  
"Mister Nelson, if you don't want the slave number thirty-five--"  
  
"I do!" he said, scrambling. "But--the problem is money, feeding another person costs money, clothing another person--"  
  
"We're quite happy to gift you a lump sum to pay for the law school as well as extra for the upkeep until it pays for itself," she interrupted, sounding as if she hadn't at all.  
  
"What?" Foggy said, flat-footed. He felt like an asthmatic toddler in a boxing match.  
  
"Oh, my owner couldn't possibly care less about the money," she explained. "Whatever it costs--and it won't be too much, honestly, any slave that's in such a bad behavioral feedback loop that it's close to starving to death won't cost _that_ much--he doesn't care. Now that he's decided to buy it, it's going to be bought, and he'll either gift it to you with some money to make sure his reputation stays at a useful 'generous and giving back to society' or else have me flip it properly and resell it in five years for millions. Either way, a great future investment."  
  
Foggy felt himself gaping like a fish. Jesus fuck, who _were_ these people?  
  
"How much money?" he demanded.  
  
"We'll calculate the costs of the tuition, double it, and add on, hrm, let's say the booze budget, about $25,000?"  
  
Foggy jerked in shock. What the fuck? Who just casually tossed in an extra $25,000?  
  
Apparently these people.  
  
Foggy had the very uncomfortable feeling that he'd never actually interacted with anyone who was _really_ rich until now. Marci from the class he didn't have with Matt wasn't this crazy, or this wealthy.  
  
Foggy cleared his throat. "And medical bills, too, for Matt and her--it."  
  
"Add in another ten grand for those for this year. Mister Nelson, you must understand, two slaves trained in the legal field will pay for themselves fairly quickly. Once you've started at a firm--or started your own, really, it doesn't matter--you've got more than triple the productivity of one person with fewer costs. Overall, you're already quite lucky to have Matt, and while he doesn't exactly need another slave, my owner does have a reputation to uphold. Either he must be generous beyond belief and a maestro who sees the potential in the misused of our fine society, or he must be a fixer-upper. He can't be a man taking on charity cases."  
  
Foggy blinked hard, and thought, and said, "What do _you_ want for it?"  
  
"Well, if we're gifting it, in order to uphold our reputation, we need a small period of time in which you own it and I make sure any possible behavioral issues are due to environment, and not inherent. If we can't, we absolutely cannot gift it. That would be unacceptably risky."  
  
He felt icy but determined. "Three days."  
  
"Mister Nelson?"  
  
"Three days, and you--you can't hurt it, or Matt, or do anything like that."  
  
There was a pause and then, "I've conferred with my owner, and he agrees. $35,000 plus double law school tuition plus three days to ensure we won't just be embarrassing ourselves. You're a very lucky man, Mister Nelson. See you tomorrow at nine PM! Best of luck with Matt!"  
  
She hung up.  
  
Foggy sat down heavily. What the fuck had he _done_?  
  
Matt came over, looking beatific, and knelt down, his head on Foggy's thigh.  
  
"Thank you so much," he whispered, loud in the ringing silence. "Foggy, thank you so much. Now it won't die. I'll make you so happy, I'll show you it was worth it. Thank you, Foggy," and he kissed Foggy's hand over and over, eyes shut.  
  
"Stop," Foggy said eventually, and ran a hand through his hair.   
  
Three days. It would be--if they 'gifted' that poor person to Foggy tomorrow--a Friday, Saturday and then Sunday. So he could supervise as much as possible.  
  
God, what the fuck was his life now?  
  
Foggy realized that he was going to have to put it on his google calendar at this rate, to tell Anna about all of this and get some advice on how to get off the crazy train his life had become.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Mary Oliver's "The Uses of Sorrow", here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/66217628311/the-uses-of-sorrow-mary-oliver


	41. what you recall are impressions; we have the facts

The next day went by in a crawl, and after classes Matt immediately started to clean everything all over again, despite him already keeping the place spotless every day.  
  
"Matt," Foggy said at one point, watching him scrub an already-gleaming sink. "Matt, can you--come here please," because Matt looked frantic.  
  
Matt came over there, drying his hands.  
  
"Matt, let me--" and then Foggy hugged him tightly, waiting until Matt closed his eyes to ask, "Are you nervous?"  
  
Matt chewed on his lip and said, low and with visible courage, "I--yes, Foggy, I'm very nervous. I haven't been around her for months, not since that unfortunate incident. And I haven't been around Winter since he sold me," and he sounded utterly sad.  
  
Foggy hugged him more. "Matt," he said, and then tried to find the question he needed to ask. "I--is Summer going to hurt it? During the, uh, three days?"  
  
"What?" Matt asked, sounding baffled. "No, of course not, Foggy. She believes in reward conditioning. Three days is nowhere near the amount of time you have to spend establishing a rapport and forging appropriate associations before you do things like strengthen a slave's pain tolerance or increase their ability to obey through distress."  
  
That was both worrying and reassuring. One of Foggy's hands came up and touched Matt's head without him consciously deciding to.  
  
"And she didn't--did either of them have sex with you?" He asked, regretting the necessity.  
  
Matt paused. "No," he said calmly. "No, they never did, I'll be perfectly safe around them, Foggy. Even if they had, they don't steal from others, they wouldn't."  
  
"Why--" Foggy winced at himself. "I'm going to ask, and I believe you, and this is going to sound horrible, but why didn't they ever, uh, have sex with you?"  
  
A long pause and Foggy stopped hugging Matt to see his face better.  
  
His expression was contemplative. "Summer felt it would be--her words were _you're going to have plenty of sex you can't stand and never want the rest of your life, you don't need to start it with me, this portion of the curriculum has no practicum_ , and she was sincere, and si--her owner is one of those people who never wants sex from anyone, at all."  
  
Foggy blinked. "He's asexual?"  
  
"That's the term for it, yes," Matt said. "He's never wanted to have sex with anyone, at least not since he, uh, since he decided his new name would be Winter."  
  
Foggy frowned. "What's the guy's previous name, then?"  
  
Matt's whole body cringed. "I--Foggy, please, I--" and that was fear right there, so Foggy hugged him again and murmured, "Hey, Matt, it's fine, you don't have to tell me if he'd hurt you for telling me, it's okay."  
  
"Thank you, Foggy," Matt murmured, and sank down gratefully to kiss Foggy's hand--Foggy had asked Matt if he wanted to stop doing that this morning, and Matt had explained that it felt like the most sincere way to express his gratitude that he knew of, and Foggy wasn't about to take another thing away from him--and then Matt explained to Foggy's legs, "He does not wish anything or anyone to discuss his name beyond clarifying that his name is Winter."  
  
That was alarmingly creepy. "Okay," Foggy said slowly, and then there was a sharp knocking, and he went to go get the door.  
  
Foggy's first thought was that Summer looked tiny next to the man.  
  
His second thought was that the man was somehow even more alarmingly creepy in person.  
  
He had long hair for a man--for a white guy, at least--down to a bit past his shoulders, gathered up in a French braid that looked somehow gracefully masculine. He also was wearing black jeans, combat boots with buckles, a black suit jacket under a dark navy peacoat, and a Captain America shirt.  He looked like a few of Foggy's uncles, the ones who had been Navy SEALs, made of muscle without the bulges of bodybuilders. He was completely clean-shaven and looked past Foggy to stare at Matt, on his knees.  
  
Then he switched his gaze to Foggy, and said in that weird mixed-up Russian-Brooklyn accent, "You must be Matt's owner, Foggy Nelson."  
  
It was very, very funny how even this serial killer-looking man got Foggy's name correct and his own biological mother didn't. "Yes," Foggy said, and held his hand out to shake. "And you're...Mister Winter?"  
  
"Just Winter," the man greeted, and shook his hand with an ice-cold metal prosthetic. It gleamed in the light. Foggy made sure to not loose his grip or lose his nerve. It wasn't the metal arm that made his skin crawl.  
  
Summer, standing next to him, was wearing short snowboots, high-waisted jeans with three large turquoise buttons on the front that her long-sleeved gold-flecked black shirt was tucked into. She had a peacoat on herself, something wine-colored that looked expensive. Her hair was long and golden blonde and tumbled down her front in soft curls and waves, silk-shining, and half her head was cleanly, perfectly shaven, highlighting the ring of snowflakes that went around her throat in a vivid tattoo.  
  
A tattoo _collar_. It made Foggy sick to think about.  
  
But she was exquisitely, agonizingly beautiful, and he saw her dark red fingernails twist nervously around each other as she stared past him, looking at Matt.  
  
"Well, come in, I guess," Foggy said, feeling very stupid but not sure what else to do, and they both flashed him a perfunctory smile and came into his apartment.  
  
Summer immediately walked over to Matt and herself knelt on the floor in front of him, studying his face, saying something in French to him, and together they looked ethereally, unreally beautiful, each of them like something from a story.  
  
"Uh, Matt, let's, coffee I guess," Foggy said, and Matt instantly rose in the middle of a sentence. Summer gave Foggy a look that was half murderous and half seductive, and also stood up, walking over to Winter, whose gaze was unsettlingly blank.  
  
They both looked at each other and then at Foggy, and Foggy cleared his throat. "I guess we should sit down and go over the contract to be absolutely sure of things," he said.  
  
"An excellent choice, Mister Nelson," she said brightly and whipped out from a large purple leather purse he hadn't noticed some papers and slid them across the table at him.  
  
Matt made coffee and as it was brewing, came over to the side of Foggy where his chair was, and waited. Why was he waiting?  
  
Oh. Oh, what if--Matt knew Foggy wanted him to actually sit in his chair for food, and wasn't sure if Foggy wanted him to sit there or kneel.  
  
Well, that was fine. "Sit, Matt," he said and gently nudged him. He was getting better at ordering Matt to do things to help him calm down.  
  
Matt sat obediently, and Winter said something in what sounded like Russian, and Matt ducked his head and murmured a thanks.  
  
Keep the conversational ball in your court, Nelson, Foggy thought to himself, and looked over the contract.  
  
It said pretty much everything they'd said over the phone--"Slave number 3519781841181818 will be transferred within the hour to the permanent custody of Franklin Nelson, current owner of slave number 556682394441, ownership being transferred in full, upon the signing of the contract. Franklin Nelson will then have a three-day period in which to cancel his portion of the contract, during which slave number 77712606282828 will evaluate and ensure the quality of slave number 3519781841181818, and if canceled, ownership will revert in full to JBB Winter, owner of slave number 77712606282828. After this three-day period, on precisely 12:00 AM...further buying and selling of slave number 3519781841181818 will proceed as normal."  
  
Foggy read it over four times, carefully, and then nodded. This was fine. He would have to grit his teeth and make sure nothing really awful happened to Matt's friend or Matt for those three days, and from there he could figure things out.  
  
"Okay," Foggy said. "Now we're getting her--it tonight, right?"  
  
They glanced at each other. "We'd like to request to take Matt along," Summer said, voice soft. "He's a friendly face. He can help keep it calm and docile long enough to get it here and let me take over."  
  
"And besides," Winter added, his smile somehow off, something about his eyes, "It'll be good to have another pair of hands."  
  
"Then I'm coming too," Foggy said firmly. He would not leave Matt alone with these people.  
  
"Of course, Mister Nelson," she said cheerily. "Now, we have the supplies in the car. What do you say we go and get you your future investment?"  
  
Foggy gritted his teeth, but nodded, and they rose to gather coats and leave.  
  
Matt turned off the coffeemaker, and turned to Foggy and whispered, "I'm sorry if I've displeased you, Foggy," and then Foggy snapped. Fuck, he was so done with Matt being scared of him, so he did the only thing he could think of and hugged him tight.  
  
"It's fine," Foggy said. "You want to save your friend. Let's go do that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title take from "We Remember Your Childhood Well" by Carol Ann Duffy, here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/129087415218/nobody-hurt-you-nobody-turned-off-the-light-and


	42. exit seraphim and Satan’s men:

Matt can feel Winter's gaze on him as they walk downstairs, Foggy guiding him, and Summer leading the way to the car.  
  
He almost missed this, the heaviness of being owned by someone with so much power. Winter hadn't been a bad owner at all; at the beginning, Matt had been terrified of him, with the whirring metal arm and the cold silences and the flat, dead way he spoke most of the time. The way Matt barely knew him at all.  
  
But compared to how most other owners, Winter was so much better. He had clear expectations, firm orders, and didn't play mind games. Matt had always been fed when he deserved it, and treated fairly.   
  
And now he'd told Matt that he was proud of him too, when Matt had done what _Foggy_ wanted, not what was protocol.   
  
_Good boy,_ and Matt smiled to himself at the words. _I knew you were taught well._  
  
Matt had been--was still somewhat--so anxious about embarrassing Foggy in front of them, making them disappointed in him. But Summer had told Matt that she was so happy to see him, that she was so looking forward to these three days.   
  
And Barely Legal was going to _live_. It was going to be alive, and Foggy would feed it, and Matt could probably get permission to hug it, and then things would be better. Foggy had been so very generous to Matt even when Matt had been making nothing but mistakes.   
  
Matt got in the car, grinning widely against his will.   
  
Winter drove, and Foggy got shotgun, and Summer climbed in next to him, saying in low, murmuring French, "(So your owner really does like you.)"  
  
Matt ducked his head as Winter started the car and began to drive. He smelled clothes, medicines, and a lot of food in the car, packed into coolers. "(Foggy is very sweet,)" he explained. "(I wasn't kidding when I said I was his doll now.)"  
  
She made a soft noise of assent, and then Winter asked her, "You called ahead, right?"  
  
"Yes, sir, we're going to be dealing with the wife," she said calmly. "The ownership's in her name, too, and as far as I can tell it's one of those situations where she doesn't like what's going on but not enough to stop it, sir."  
  
"I see," he said, his voice still flat. "I'll wait outside after we get it back to that building."  
  
"Yes, sir," she said.  
  
Then there was more silence.  
  
"(This may be very difficult emotionally,)" she told Matt again. "(It may be in a very, very bad condition. Do not let your disgust show.)"  
  
Matt felt--offended, actually. "(Of course not.)"  
  
She gave a soft chuckle. "(Your pride's bloomed again. Does your owner like it?)"  
  
"(As far as I can tell. There was a situation, with with biological mother, where he was very, very happy when I was politely rude to her.)"  
  
"(Politely rude? Do tell.)"  
  
\--  
  
It was very creepy to be driving around in the night to a house near Columbia. Foggy felt rather like the guy in the beginning of a horror movie.  
  
But Matt sounded so very happy, almost shy. He and Summer were talking in soft French, and Matt's voice sounded as musical and beautiful as in German.  
  
Foggy caught the name 'Sharpe' and turned around reflexively, wondering if they were talking about about Rosalind, and then after Matt said something all three other people burst into bright, loud laughter. The guy--Winter--even cackled a little, and Summer seemed like she was having a seizure, she was convulsing so hard.  
  
Then Matt caught on to his apparent confused fear, and hastily said to Foggy, "Oh, Foggy, I apologize, I will only speak in English from now on, please punish--"  
  
"It's fine," Foggy said, even though he very much wanted to know what they were saying. "Just--until Monday, please," because as much as it made him faintly queasy it honestly wasn't safe to not know what the hell kind of poison they were feeding him.  
  
"Of course, Foggy," Matt murmured, and then the car was silent.  
  
The house wasn't especially far, and they pulled up in front of a glittering McMansion, and backed up so that the van's large truck was closest to the door.  
  
"All right," Winter said, and his voice sounded suddenly strangely familiar and also utterly wrong, because all the Russian was absent from his accent, "Let's get this party started."  
  
\--  
  
Inside the house, Foggy had the feeling he'd had when he once saw part of a nature documentary on lions.  
  
It had been about how lions hunted various different prey, including humans. Some of them were really fascinating--lions hunting Cape buffalo or gazelle or even, sometimes, elephants.   
  
At one point, two of the lionesses had jumped on a teenage elephant at the same time, one ripping at its hindquarters and one chewing through its neck, and the elephant had run around in panic until it died.  
  
The mother of the assholes who owned the slave Foggy was about to help rescue was the elephant.  
  
Winter had somehow turned into a different person. He didn't lurk or just stand there, creepily, anymore. His voice was entirely smooth-talking New York accent, and Summer leaned affectionately into his side as they talked and talked until it was clear that Mrs Goodman, and what an ironic name _that_ was, couldn't stand up in the face of the ruthless charm.  
  
Matt himself stayed with his arm in Foggy's elbow, a large duffel at his feet, smiling softly, and whispering into Foggy's ear that he was trying to find Barely Legal's heartbeat--and what a supremely fucked-up name that was, but Foggy was determined to not ever make fun of anyone for their name, so he didn't let himself dwell on it--and was getting closer.  
  
Mrs Goodman babbled and blurted out things, and Summer and Winter pried her open, one gentle remark after the other.   
  
"I mean, I just, I'm a married woman, look but don't touch, see?" she nervously giggled at one point.  
  
"That's a shame, sugar, you rationed?" Winter had flirted back, and she had given a real, flattered laugh at that.  
  
"And of _course_ it hurts to see your children just throw away a gift like that, over and over again," Summer was saying a minute after that.  
  
"Do _you_ have any children?" Mrs Goodman asked Winter.  
  
He blinked and for a second the spell wavered. But then he went on, "I had daughters, once. Natalya and Yelena. I miss them all the time."  
  
Mrs Goodman gasped. "I'm so sorry for your loss."  
  
He nodded, and were those tears at the edges of his eyes real? Jesus. Foggy felt like he was watching a movie not only in a language he didn't speak, but with tens of thousands of subtle references and social cues he had no idea were even there.  
  
"And I knew, from when I had my girls," Winter went on, "That if they don't appreciate what you give them, you have to take it away sometimes. It's for their own good."  
  
"Now I know you may be worried," Summer said gently, "About the costs. But we're more than happy to pay back the original price, as well as a good ten grand thrown in for your troubles."  
  
"What would happen to the poor dear?" Mrs Goodman asked, on the edge of agreeing to the sale.  
  
"Oh, it'll be well taken care of," Summer reassured her. "I can assure you, you'll only be protecting its welfare."  
  
There was a horrible second, and then Mrs Goodman slumped her shoulders and gave in. "Here's the papers," Winter said, and she signed. "And here's your money," Summer said, and handed her a check.  
  
"Now, where's our new investment?" Winter asked, stunningly handsome in this charming person-suit.  
  
"It's in its cage in the back room," Mrs Goodman said, and pointed. "I don't have the key, Edward does."  
  
"Oh, we don't need the key, Mrs Goodman," Summer said serenely. "Mister Nelson, if we may, Matt should come with me for retrieval."  
  
Foggy glanced at Matt, who was almost vibrating with tension and who whispered to him, "May I, Foggy?"  
  
"Yeah, go," Foggy said, and Matt kissed his hand and went over to her, put his arm on her jacket sleeve, and she and him walked to go and get Foggy's newest slave.  
  
Shit. What was he going to tell Anna?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from "Mad Girl's Love Song" by Sylvia Plath, here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/121605605094/mad-girls-love-song


	43. I'm the kind of human wreckage that you love

It was dark and cramped in the cage.  
  
It thought about a lot of things in the cage, or nothing at all, but this time, it had been thinking about nothing at all since it had been dragged away and stripped and thrown into the car and taken back and shoved in the cage.  
  
Nothing at all.  
  
But now its brain was undeniably awake, and so it thought about what it could see, and hear, and not what it could smell. It did not think about the bruises or the piss on the cage's floor.  
  
It did not think about the plate of now-cold Greek lemon chicken placed just a foot away from the cage.  
  
It thought about being a zombie, for a minute, and full-body flinched itself into the bars. No, no. That was not something it could think about.  
  
It thought about darkness and coldness, but it had been cold for months now, so instead it thought about crampedness, and then it heard steps. A quiet female voice.  
  
And--was that Matt? It hadn't hear his voice often, but--  
  
The door opened and it strained its head up to look, and the light flickered on, and it was--  
  
It blinked through the headache of the sudden light.  
  
It was Matt, and a gorgeous, beautiful slave with a gleamingly new collar tattoo and snow-boots, and they were carrying a big bag, and Matt was there.  
  
Matt had--Matt had _said_ not to worry, but--but every time it had almost been sold, it hadn't gone through, the stupid cunt twins had cried or begged hard enough or the cunt of a father had yelled at his stupid coward cunt wife about sunken costs and economic downswings, and it hadn't believed Matt, hope was stupid, but Matt was _here_.  
  
Or else it was dying.  
  
The slave--and it was Summer, it realized with a jolt, the Summer it had seen that one party, wearing a shirt with gold and rolling up her sleeves and bunning up her hair, the hair that was there, on the left side of her head, telling Matt to get out the clothes--was crouching down over the cage.  
  
"Listen to me," and oh god her voice was even prettier in person. It felt a low rolling flush of something waking up inside it at the voice.  
  
"Listen to me. Don't think about anything else. Listen to me now."  
  
How could it do anything else?  
  
"Listen to my voice," she said softly. "Blink twice quickly if you're listening."  
  
It blinked twice.  
  
"Good. Now, you've been sold to my owner--"  
  
What the fuck?  
  
"And by the hour's end you'll be owned by Matt's owner, Foggy Nelson. Blink twice if you understand what I'm saying, three times if you don't."  
  
It blinked twice, because those were all comprehensible words in English, but together they were--they were in some sort of other language, coated in fairy dust or something, because how could this be really happening?  
  
"Now, I'm going to open the cage. Don't be too frightened. We don't have a key and I'm not about to ask those sadistic nitwits for it."  
  
It smiled against its will. It hurt, its lips started to bleed, but it grinned with all its might.  
  
Then Summer stood up, and stood at one end of the cage, and kicked the bars.  
  
The bars _bent_ , impossibly, crunching against each other, and she kicked it again and then went to the other end and did it again, and it was a horrible noise.  
  
It was like the jaws of life, or something, and she looked like an angel as she crouched over the cage and held out her arms.  
  
"If you can, reach up to grasp my hands," and it hadn't thought it had the strength anymore, creaking and breaking open as it was, but it did and then she pulled, gently and carefully, and it was _out of the cage_.  
  
"Good job. I'm glad you're being good for me," she said, and its face flamed with pleasure.  
  
"Don't be shy," she said calmly. "I've seen much worse. I've been in worse shape, myself. I've got it all planned out. I'm going to help you transition to your new life, for three days. I'll wash you at the apartment where you'll live from now on. Matt will assist. I'll make sure you can be good for your new owner, too, and things will be better."  
  
It almost wanted to cry, but it felt dry all over, each vein the Sahara.  
  
"Now, stay very still. I'm going to dress you."  
  
It winced. Oh, God, it didn't want Matt to see it like this, not with blood crusting it, not with it covered in that dried, itchy waste.  
  
But Matt was blind. It sagged against the floor in relief. Thank God.  
  
"I know," she murmured, and how had she caught the way it kept looking at Matt? "I know, it's so nice to not be looked at, isn't it?"  
  
It knew, in that moment, that it loved Summer. It didn't just want to be her. It wanted to do everything that she could possibly want from it.  
  
Summer pulled on what felt like sweatpants, and a warm, soft, long-sleeved shirt, and a sweatshirt that said "COLUMBIA" across the front, and a hat that clung to her skull, and thick socks, and soft things that felt like slippers and were stuffed with some sort of wool on the inside.  
  
It almost started crying, but remembered. Stay still. Be good for her.  
  
"Good job staying still," she murmured. "You're doing quite well. Now Matt's going to carry you, and I'm going to guide him, and you are not going to do much of anything besides let yourself be carried. If there's anything you want to say, I'm told you know Morse?"  
  
It tapped out, [Yes].  
  
"Good. If there's anything important, anything starts to hurt or you start to go away to Elsewhere in your head, you tap it out, got that? Matt, if it taps, you listen and inform me of anything serious, got it?"  
  
"Yes," Matt murmured, and his face was concerned, not disgusted.  
  
"Good. Both of you will reflect well on me. Now, Matt, bridal carry, let's get out of this garish shithole."  
  
Matt scooped it up, carefully, like he thought it was precious.  
  
It felt strangely warm all over, with Matt carrying it, and he said quietly, "It's going to be okay. I said I'd help."  
  
[Why?] it tapped, painfully, on his arm.  
  
"I'm a doll, I have so much now, I can give it away," he said softly. "You'll see. Foggy's nowhere near as bad as I first thought he was."  
  
"He does seem rather adorable," Summer commented idly.  
  
It blinked. Adorable. How could any owner be adorable? What did that even mean?  
  
But it was out of the cage, and Summer was going to help it be better, be good for once. For a new owner, one who wasn't a cunt.  
  
It shivered faintly and pressed as much as it could into Matt's chest. He was steady. His arms didn't shake.  
  
It was carried, and Matt said quietly, "Foggy and Winter are waiting in the car," but before he even finished it tapped as fast as it could, [Can I walk across the doorway?]  
  
He stopped. "What?"  
  
[I want to walk out of here on my own two feet.]  
  
Matt blinked. His head turned to Summer and he said, "It wants to walk out of the doorway, instead of being carried."  
  
She tilted her head and then turned around to face it.  
  
It stared at her face, unable to look down. Her beautiful, soothing, like-a-sunrise-on-a-full-stomach face.  
  
She said, calmly, "Help it across and don't let it faint and crack its skull," and strode out through the doorway.  
  
Matt carefully, three steps from the doorway, let it down, and it grinned fiercely, and held onto his arms as he walked backwards, guiding it.  
  
It stepped one, two, three, _four_ and then it was out, it was fucking _out of there for good_ , and it turned to look back and grin goodbye, good fucking riddance--  
  
And there was the stupid bitch, the stupid evil coward cunt goddamn idiot _bitch_ who never ever stopped them but came around afterwards and washed its pussy out so it wouldn't get pregnant, the one who cried on its shoulder.  
  
It worked up the liquid, opened its mouth, and spat onto their marble floor.  
  
Then Summer said calmly behind it, "Matt, pick it up again and come get it into the truck with me," and Matt moved to do it, and it stared defiantly, happily, at the sight of the whole house retreating, its mouth saying over and over again soundlessly, **fuck you**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from "Blood" by My Chemical Romance.


	44. there is a charge for the eyeing of my scars

Matt smiles to himself and hides it as best he can, because really, you can't encourage things like that on principle, but it reminds him of when he spat on the ground of the open market, being pulled away by Winter, going to his new and better home.  
  
And now he's helped it go to a new and better home.  
  
Summer checks on it, testing for various things, and says to Matt, "Good job carrying it here. You're going to carry it up those stairs, too."  
  
Matt nods, glad that Foggy's been allowing him to train. Otherwise it might be somewhat difficult, even with it weighing so much less than it should.  
  
Its heartbeat is steady and strong, and it smells like--well, urine and feces, faintly, and fear-sweat, but also like adrenaline, and he holds one of its icy hands in a tight grip.  
  
Matt has the distinct feeling Foggy wouldn't mind it at all.  
  
He thinks about what to make sure it does, how to divide up work between them fairly; if Foggy wants Matt to be doing the things like cooking, Barely Legal can clean. If Foggy wants Matt to drop all house-slave tasks, Matt can make sure that it knows how to do them for Foggy.  
  
He wants them both to be so happy. He really does. Foggy is the best owner Matt may ever have, and he'll fight to keep him.  
  
But Barely Legal is hardly real competition, not for doll status, not yet anyway. Summer calls to Foggy that there's no stroke or signs of cardiac emergencies yet, and if he wants to punish Barely Legal for spitting then medically speaking he should wait and they get to the building quickly.  
  
\--  
  
There's just one missing piece of the puzzle for Foggy.  
  
Why is _Winter_ doing all of this?  
  
Matt, he understands. If Foggy had a friend that was being starved to death, he'd do anything to help.  
  
Himself, he understands. Matt hadn't asked for anything so big before, and how could he let someone else die when he could do something about it?  
  
Summer--well, he doesn't actually understand her, not at all, but he thinks there's something about her that makes her really enjoy training other slaves, and this is an opportunity to do that.  
  
But Winter just seems back to his flat affect, and Foggy can't figure him out.  
  
Before Foggy gets out to get BL--he can't constantly think of her--it--fuck--as 'Barely Legal', it doesn't feel to him like a name--inside, he turns to the guy.  
  
"Not that I'm not grateful," Foggy says, because he doesn't want them to take away BL and twist and twist until there's another Matt, how Matt was at the beginning, with a faint smile and total, utter, creepy submissiveness, "But--what are you doing this for?"  
  
Winter shrugs, and from his angle Foggy suddenly realizes where he's familiar from. "I despise waste," he says, then to Summer he calls in the back, "I'll be down here. We'll sleep at the hotel room."  
  
"Yes, sir," she calls back and she gets what sounds like an easy two coolers from the back as well.  
  
Foggy blinks and goes to get them inside--it's freezing now at night, it can't be comfortable for BL at all--and wonders to himself just how Winter's related to Bucky Barnes. He could be a clone, except that Bucky Barnes and Captain America were more than a little infamous for never owning any slaves.  
  
\--  
  
Upstairs, Matt carefully puts BL down onto the living room floor and makes sure it's sitting up, and Summer pulls out the official papers of ownership transfer that Winter's already signed in some sort of copperplate.  
  
Foggy looks it over twice again, just to be sure, and signs. It feels both worse and better than when he did it with Rosalind in that diner, because there's no naked-wrapped-in-ribbons person right behind him who Rosalind just made suck on his fingers, but also because this time he has a far better understanding of just how _wrong_ this all is.  
  
But it would be worse otherwise.  
  
He signs and Summer smiles and says, "Bring it over here," and Matt helps BL stand and walk slowly, arm slung over his shoulder.  
  
"Now," Summer says gently, "You've only got to kneel for a minute, don't fuck it up," and tells Matt, "Let it go, it's got to do the ritual," and Matt nods and untangles their fingers and his arm.  
  
BL stands before Foggy and meets his stare.  
  
It doesn't look like how Matt's face looked in that diner at _all_.  
  
Matt had looked sultry, happy, blissful, please-abuse-me.  
  
BL looks cool, and determined, and angry, and above it all looks like it would be saying _Sure, you're my owner, and you're probably better than those other jack-offs, but that doesn't mean I'll let you do **everything** to me_.  
  
There's a tense second and then it kneels, slowly, and when its knees touch the floor it exhales hard and bends its head down to the ground too, its bony hands folding over the back of its head.  
  
Matt's smiling so hard it looks like his face will break.  
  
Summer looks at Foggy expectantly.  
  
Foggy swallows. "Uh," he says, and what is he supposed to say?  
  
Matt comes over and Foggy remembers what the paper Rosalind had handed him in that diner had said to say, and swallows again, and says, "I, uh, accept your enslavement to me in full. Until such time that you are sold, you are mine," and BL's back relaxes at it.  
  
Fuck. He is so absolutely fucked.  
  
\--  
  
Foggy does the ritual and BL really does need to be washed, so Summer asks Foggy's permission to do things and use minor pieces of property of his to a reasonable degree in order to properly ensure that her job during tomorrow and the two days after it was done correctly, and Foggy asks what that actually meant, and Summer clarifies that she meant things like using a couch cushion for BL to kneel on and Matt's toiletries to wash it off properly, and Foggy says yes, and Matt stays behind as Summer picks it up and goes to wash it, and once it's in the shower with her he hugs Foggy.  
  
"I'm sorry for displeasing you," Matt murmurs into the hug.  
  
Foggy shakes a little against him and Matt wants to rip off his skin at how much he hates this, what could he possibly _do_ besides care about his owner and his--his--his friend, but then Foggy hugs him back tightly.  
  
"It's not your fault this all collided to make this the most ethical thing to do," Foggy says quietly. "You didn't make this world so epically fucked up."  
  
That's true, and Matt feels relief.  
  
BL comes out of the bathroom eventually, and Matt gets it some clothes from his dresser-drawer, and with Foggy's nod he and Summer efficiently dress it, with sweatpants and socks and shirt and sweatshirt again. Its hair is limp and wet and Matt wraps it up in a towel, and it taps out [Thank you] on his hand.  
  
Summer turns to Foggy and sighs. "Good news, Mister Nelson. No serious cuts, no broken bones, no debridement necessary, no stroke, seizures, or a need for a trip to the hospital. It should drink as much broth as it can stand and sleep under some form of blankets tonight to start its physical recovery. What time do you leave for classes tomorrow morning?"  
  
Foggy says, "Around nine AM."  
  
"Thank you, Mister Nelson, I'll be back at eight, then, to start the quality assurance process. (Goodnight, Matt, and sleep well.)"  
  
She turns and goes.  
  
Foggy turns to BL and says, "Matt, uh, I think you should make that broth, and we can all talk, briefly. And then sleep, because this was exhausting on so many levels."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Sylvia Plath's "Lady Lazarus".


	45. the point being that I can’t do what I want to do with my own body

Matt goes and focuses on making the broth. Chicken stock, garlic, heavy on the ginger.  
  
Foggy's heartbeat is slower than it's been when his trainers were here, and that's good. BL--he heard Foggy call it that when he said in the car that he wasn't going to punish it, and the owner of a slave decides the slave's name--is sitting in the chair, and its heartbeat is also slow.  
  
Things feel almost relaxed.  
  
Matt listens, too, because Foggy clears his throat and says, "Okay, I should have set this all up from the beginning and I didn't, so I apologize to you for that, Matt," and Matt frowns to himself.  
  
He really needs to get Foggy into some form of therapy.  
  
"No need, Foggy," Matt murmurs and stirs the broth.  
  
"Anyway," and Foggy sounds like a slave deciding it's not going to win an argument, "Anyway, house rules. For everyone. First of all, no sex. At all. Nobody has sex. Ever. Not for any reason, got it?"  
  
Matt nods and hears Barely Legal--BL--nod too, swish-swish of the towel.  
  
"Yes, Foggy," he says and after a second it follows suit in Morse. Good. It's not going to be stupid about this and difficult with Foggy as it was with its previous owners.  
  
"And also, about the food thing--everyone eats three meals a day, unless you're sick or full or you just don't want to, and I seriously will never, ever be mad at anyone for taking snacks or anything, just. I'd be really angry at myself for the rest of my life if either of you went hungry or thirsty, so just, take care of that, alright?"  
  
"Yes, Foggy," and there it's in unison, Morse and voice.  
  
The broth bubbles and Matt pours a mugful and brings it over.  
  
There's a very awkward second, and then it takes the proffered spoon, stirs, and brings up a spoonful to its mouth.  
  
"Oh, hell, you need chapstick," Foggy says, and Matt smiles to himself at how cute Foggy is, to worry about little luxuries like that in a time like this.  
  
"Uh, I'll put that on the list, along with clothes and oh! That reminds me! You don't have a tongue, Matt told me, and I've been wondering--do you know any American Sign Language?"  
  
There's a _very_ awkward moment at that, and Matt can tell BL's gesturing something, and nodding, but not much else.  
  
"Ok. But since Matt can't understand that, I was also wondering, here--" and Foggy slides something plastic and metal across the table to BL, who very tentatively touches it.  
  
"It's an old phone, but it's still got one of those text-to-speech apps," Foggy explains. "I--you don't have to use it all the time, but since I don't really know Morse, and neither do most people, I figured this would be easier than writing everything down or something like that."  
  
BL touches the phone and it says, in a flat, robotic voice, "Thank you, Foggy."  
  
Matt can almost hear its smile, it's so big.  
  
"I can also get a better phone where you can pick out a better voice for yourself," and does Foggy want _two_ dolls, to be so nice to them? Matt feels almost excited at the idea.  
  
"And, um, another thing, I don't think you'll believe me, but I will seriously never ever hit you or rip out your fingernails or anything like that, ever, for anything at all. Never. Not even a little bit. Okay?"  
  
There's a second and then the robotic voice says, "Understood, Foggy."  
  
"Okay. Okay. We're on the same page. Now: sleeping arrangements. I can make up the couch for you."  
  
"Thank you, Foggy," and the voice has no emotion but BL ducks its head and Matt can feel its pleased, faint blush from where he's sitting.  
  
"Okay," Foggy says to himself, and goes to get pillows and blankets, and BL's hand comes over and squeezes Matt's, and it taps out, [You were right. Things are better already.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also taken from June Jordan's "Poem About My Rights".


	46. I turned out terrific at it myself: sucking cunt, stroking ego, provoking, manipulating, comforting, keeping

It doesn't sleep most of the night, thinking.  
  
After its new owner had made up the couch--and that was downright bizarre, but so, so nice--and it had been helped over there, and had sat down and had blankets wrapped around it and pillows put where it would lie down, and Matt had put the rest of the broth in two mugs on the floor where it could easily reach them, and Matt had asked their owner if he could possibly squeeze its hand, and their owner had said _yes, of course_ , Matt had done it and then gone to sleep himself, it lay awake.  
  
It drank the broth slowly and thought about what was going to happen next. Would it be allowed to go back to Columbia? Would it become a lawyer or a paralegal, too? Was it going to be a house-slave? How would it be punished if not by being hit or starved?  
  
Oh, god, did this Foggy believe in sensory deprivation? It wasn't that old, but recently there had been a whole series of books about how it was a better punishment for slaves that didn't risk so much damage. Its previous owners--those cunts--had read it and decided that a sensory deprivation tank was just too expensive and besides, why not stick to tradition?  
  
But this new owner--Foggy, and he wanted to be referred to as _Foggy_ , not anything else, even by it--might really not be so bad. A full stomach and warm blankets and a chance to be trained to be good was nothing to scoff at.  
  
It thought about the training center as it lay awake. Sometimes it did that, mostly to try not to cry or feel despairing, because for a long time it had been better at that cunts' house than at the training center. At least there were never sirens or electric shocks at the house (no AED made it too dangerous to use an electrified collar, at least to most people).   
  
But then things had gotten worse, and worse, and then it had almost been wistful to be back there. At the training center it was this strange mix of incredibly boring and incredibly busy, all day, every day, but it had missed the camaraderie of being with other slaves. Sure, the cunts had had other slaves, but it wasn't as if _it_ got to interact with them, being the twins' toy as it was.   
  
And then Matt had happened, and it had stopped being so numb, and it had hurt to suddenly realize how much better other slaves' lives were up close, and then there had been an escalation.   
  
It lay its head on the pillow and closed its eyes but couldn't relax enough to sleep.  
  
Even if this was better than before, it was still too uncertain. It didn't know what Foggy wanted from it, or why it had bought it. If it was just to make his doll happy--and Matt was so much happier than he had been at the beginning of the semester, wow--then it wasn't sure what to do. Matt had liked it all the time, when it had been playfully teasing or angry and bitter or sympathetic for his plight.  
  
If Foggy wanted a house-slave so his doll could focus on just being beautiful and spoiled and happy, well. It supposed it could do that. It tried to recall all the house-slave training it had gotten, but it was hazy and in the dark apartment it was difficult to remember the flourescents and stained white walls.  
  
Even the few prisons had colors on the walls.  
  
It made itself sit up a bit and drink more broth. It wasn't sure it knew how to be good anymore; it wasn't sweet or determinedly obedient, not like Matt had been back when he resented Foggy for being so damn inscrutable. It had been fighting the cunt twins and the cunt parents for so long, it genuinely didn't know if it could ever calm down and not fight this new owner.  
  
But then again, Summer, _the_ Summer, had said she was going to help, and had said that it had been good so far, and it smiled at the memory. It had always both wanted to meet Summer after seeing her, and been terrified of it. What if she thought it was as stupid and worthless as the cunt parents thought it was?  
  
But she hadn't. And now it would be trained again and not by a institution that barked out numbers (numbers that slipped out of its ears the second it heard them, it hadn't done that on _purpose_ , don't punish me for forgetting when I can't help it).  
  
It waited, and drank all the broth, even the mug that was cold, and slept only a little bit.  
  
\--  
  
The next morning was just as surreal. Today, Summer had politely knocked on the door, wearing a floral long-sleeved dress that went to her knees, and leggings that looked like snakes' scales, and a leather trenchcoat. She was carrying another black duffel, and put it down next to the coolers, which, Foggy realized with a start, she had left there last night and nobody had noticed.  
  
She greeted him politely with a "Good morning, Mister Nelson," and then went over to BL, who was still on the couch, and said brightly, "And I see you've still been good for your new owner?"  
  
BL nodded slowly.  
  
"Good. I'm glad. I haven't got as much time as I'd usually have, so today we'll cover a lot of material, but I know you're quite capable."  
  
She moved to the coolers, and Foggy became aware of Matt as he turned and asked Foggy, "Foggy, should I make coffee for three or four?"  
  
Foggy blinked. "Uh, four, I guess," and Matt nodded and poured his and Foggy's normal coffee into their normal take-with-you cups and then two mugs of coffee for Summer and BL.  
  
BL, who was staring longingly at Foggy's toast.  
  
"Oh, right," Foggy said. "I guess you want toast too?"  
  
BL's eyes flickered from him to Summer.  
  
"It shouldn't eat toast yet, Mister Nelson," Summer said calmly. "Really, it's a bit early in the physical recuperation for that. That's why I've brought this," and Foggy glanced inside the cooler and saw cans of some sort of Ensure-like drink.  
  
"Strong healthy supplement, none of that 'formulate just for slaves' nonsense, as if we don't have the same physiology," she explained. "And vitamin pills, it's going to need for a long while. Now then," and she went and got her mug of coffee and glanced all over the room, "Barely Legal, sit up, put one of those pillows on the ground, and kneel for your owner."  
  
BL did, eyes darting wildly at Foggy and then Summer.  
  
He gritted his teeth. According to the contract he'd signed, if he tried to stop her from doing anything that was 'strictly necessary' to the process, it would be the exact same as formally ending his ownership and it'd be transferred immediately to Winter.  
  
 _Three days with supervision so it can't be too awful is better than five years without any oversight_ , Foggy reminded himself.  
  
"Good job," Summer said, and it was so eerily like how Matt had imitated her when he'd explained reward conditioning. "Now, the lack of a tongue makes this a bit more difficult, ordinarily I'd use fruits and candies, but I'll just improvise. Do you like this? Honest answer."  
  
Then her hands reached out and very delicately brushed BL's cheek.  
  
BL's eyes went huge and round and it nodded frantically.   
  
"Excellent. And rank these from one to ten for me," and Summer pulled out what looked to Foggy like small things of perfumes.  
  
Then Matt murmured to Foggy, "I apologize for interrupting, Foggy, but we should be going," and against his better sense Foggy sighed and they went.  
  
\--  
  
It followed Matt and its owner with its eyes and then when they left Summer made a gentle noise.  
  
It jolted back to her, to her upsettingly beautiful face.  
  
"You're correct in finding your owner more important to monitor than me, but now you need to focus," she scolded mildly.   
  
It winced, and refocused on the smells, and slowly made its fingers into the signs for one two three and through ten for the smells, with the grape-soda-grape as the best and the cinnamon as the least-best. None of them were actually bad, though.  
  
"Good job, helping me calibrate this," she said, almost purring. "I'm glad to see you're going to work with me. Now let me explain this process as a whole briefly before we go back to brush up on the basics.  
  
"You have been hammered very, very thin, and have cracks in places. Through this process, you will bend and bend and become again something more useful and beautiful to your new owner, and to me.   
  
"Oh, yes," she said at its wide eyes, "It's quite important to me that all the slaves I help reflect well on me. My reputation is one of the very few things that are _mine_. Matt reflects beautifully on me and I won't have you shaming him or me by being anything but your best for Foggy Nelson. Am I quite understood?"  
  
It nodded.  
  
"Good job. _Good_ slave. Now, let's go back to basics--"  
  
It flinched.  
  
"No, no, don't worry, nothing like that. I suppose you are used to the basics being associated with pain?"  
  
It nodded, thinking of shocks. Sirens. Walls.  
  
"Oh, those idiots. No, I'm going to use rewards, not punishments. Pleasure is ten thousand times more effective than pain. You can substitute a whipping that costs thousands of dollars in repairs for a single nice thing, if you use your brain. Of course, pain is useful in its own way. Ask Matt about that some time.  
  
"But for now, I intend to rebuild your mind from the crumbling fortress it's become. It'll be a cottage, a breezy summer home. Heh," and she giggled at her own joke, and it smiled too.  
  
"Now, I've only got three days, so we'll see how much help you need on the basics. I will forge an entirely new association: obedience with _pleasure_ , not the absence of obedience with pain. Quit slouching and kneel properly. Hands behind your back, spine straight, face pointed at the ceiling, fingers laced together, and be still. Do not move your legs, your arms, your face, your mouth, your jaw, your torso. Be still for thirty seconds..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Dorothy Allison's "The Women Who Hate Me", here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/59388294063/1-the-women-who-do-not-know-me-the-women


	47. power comes in many fine forms, supple and rich as butterfly wings

Instead of sitting down for lunch, Foggy and Matt grabbed some to-go sandwiches and sodas, and immediately began walking to the disability services office. It was the only place Foggy could think of to help anyone.  
  
"Uh, okay," he says as they walk into the office to the receptionist. "I need to talk to whoever could help me with this situation with a student, actually, I don't know if it--she-- _it_ got registered with this office in the first place..."  
  
They end up in that Martie woman's office, and Foggy spills the beans on everything, including the sudden sale, the fact that he's not sure if it can come back on Monday, the fact that it doesn't have any textbooks, and everything else.  
  
"Well," she said, and Foggy was caught at her bright pink-tipped corkscrew curls, "This is kind of an intense situation. Now, I think I can help, but you're going to have to do some of the work, too."  
  
Foggy nods. He's willing to do anything to actually make this right.  
  
Her eyes go from him to Matt, who had knelt next to the armchair and was eating his turkey-swiss-on-rye in small, delicate, quick bites. Matt had asked him quickly on the walk over if he could, and Foggy had said yes. It was past time Matt got what he wanted.  
  
"Now let's start with what to do if they don't come back," and for a second there Foggy thinks she's talking about him and Matt, or Matt and BL, but then he realizes sharply that she means singular they, and why hadn't he thought of that before? He should ask BL if he can use that instead, "If they can't come back this semester, what would be best at preserving the GPA would be a total medical withdrawal from the, uh, starvation, and then after that would be an owner-ordered withdrawal, and so let me get the paperwork for you for those in case you want to file either one," and she bustles around her rhinestone-studded file cabinets as she goes, "And if you're willing to use one, I can send you an email about good text-to-speech programs for phones and tablets, as well as links to good online ways to learn American Sign Language."  
  
"Thank you so much," Foggy blurted out. "Really. Shit. I'm just overwhelmed."  
  
"Well of course, this is very sudden," Martie said soothingly. "Now, as for the textbooks and other materials, you can file a suit in the civil circuit to actually get those back, because technically speaking, as part of a transfer of ownership, if an owner intends to use the slave bought for the same purposes as the previous owners used it for, the materials are meant to be transferred. There's precedent with study aids especially because of how expensive textbooks are. Here's a copy of the relevant laws," and she hands Foggy even more paperwork.  
  
Foggy nods, and takes everything with him as he and Matt thank her again and again and leave.  
  
\--  
  
Foggy opens the door to the apartment and drops the keys in shock.  
  
BL is lying flat on the couch, facing him, its head on the ground, arms stretched out, palms up, eyes closed, legs spread apart, stark naked.  
  
Foggy's mouth makes some kind of strangled noise, and its eyelids twitch but don't open.  
  
Matt tilts his head curiously, and Summer says something to him in German. He nods and says, softly, "Ah," and moves to go study.  
  
Foggy's still gaping, jaw open. "I--what the fuck?"  
  
He tries very hard to not see the pinkness of BL's vulva. It's the least arousing thing he's ever seen, not lease because its face is controlled fear.  
  
"It's doing quite well, Mister Nelson," Summer says brightly from where she's lounging on the floor. "Excellently well. We're already most of the way through shedding body modesty."  
  
Foggy tries to think. "I--fuck--no sex, okay--"  
  
"Of course not," Summer says, sounding offended. "Sex is disgusting. It hasn't done anything of the sort to earn such an abominable punishment."  
  
Foggy blinks and opens his mouth and then closes it. "Okay," he said slowly. "Good. I'm, uh--" and he goes to grab a drink because he needs something to clench his fists around so he doesn't punch her in the face.  
  
He hears a faint _thump_ as Summer says to BL, "That's fifteen minutes, you can go back to kneeling after you put on clothes, good job," and he comes back to look at Summer because he cannot possibly trust her.  
  
"Good job, _good_ slave," Summer purrs at BL, who's pulling on the shirt, and kisses her cheek. It looks disturbingly how Foggy's cousins kiss their younger sisters' cheeks when they do the dishes.  
  
"Now, Mister Nelson, I have to ask, what did you want done with its hair? It's got mats aplenty and most of them will have to be cut out."  
  
Foggy doesn't even have to think about it. "Do whatever BL says it wants done with its hair," he says firmly.  
  
Summer tilts her head and studies him with reptilian eyes. "I see. No shaving, no designs marked in?"  
  
"Do _whatever BL says it wants done_ with its hair," Foggy said again, and then went to go use his meagre legal knowledge to get BL's textbooks from the Goodmans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from "You Get Proud By Practicing" by Laura Hershey, here: http://www.thenthdegree.com/proudpoem.asp


	48. let us take a knife and cut the world in two

Matt's not exactly sure why Foggy's agitated by Summer's presence, but he gets a quick text to come down please and go with him to retrieve BL's textbooks, and so he goes.  
  
As he walks past the living room, he hears her softly speaking to it, brushing its hair. "See, that wasn't so bad, was it? It was scary, but you felt the fear and obeyed anyway, and now you're getting nice things. There's no need for all that terror. You are stronger than your fear," and he smiles to himself. Learning that you could survive anything that happened to you naked was painful, but worth it.  
  
As he locks the door and heads downstairs, he hears, "Now strip again, you've got a new pose and twenty minutes to hold it in, and then I'll brush the rest of your hair and get some of those knots out," and then he walks to Foggy.  
  
"God," Foggy mutters to himself as he offers Matt his elbow and they go to catch a cab. "That is fucked up."  
  
Matt doesn't know what he means. "The training?" He asks.  
  
"The whole 'put yourself in a humiliating position' thing, yeah," Foggy says.  
  
Matt blinks. "The--" and he cuts himself off, it's not his place to disagree, but then Foggy's body, guiding him, loses a bit of the tension.  
  
"Go on," Foggy says, gentle now.  
  
"The point of that is to make it not be humiliating or frightening anymore," Matt explains. "You can't afford to be shy about nakedness, not when you're a slave. It's good for us, Foggy."  
  
Foggy's silent. Then he sighs deeply. "I don't know how to explain this to you, but I just--it's creepy. There's so many things horribly wrong with the whole idea, the whole process, and I'm sorry it happened to you."  
  
Matt has no idea what to say to that. Foggy hails a cab and they go to the Goodman's to get the books.  
  
\--  
  
Foggy rings the doorbell and steadies himself. He's here for things to make BL's life easier. That's all.  
  
But then when the person who opens the door is the guy who hit Matt in public, in front of Foggy, he feels the abrupt desire to punch his stupid goddamn face in. With a baseball bat.  
  
The guy's face looks over Foggy and twists in something, and then his mother--the Mrs Goodman Foggy saw being casually manipulated, her strings yanked about like a marionette--appears and snaps at him, "Get out of the doorway, Hudson Edmondson Goodman, I've had enough of you," and he slinks off.  
  
Then she turns to Foggy and beams. "So you're the nice boy that owns that poor dear?"  
  
_Poor dear is the understatement of the century,_ Foggy doesn't say. He instead makes sure he's got his calm-but-determined face front.  
  
"We're here for its textbooks and other materials from Columbia," he manages to say coolly.  
  
"Oh, sweetie, it doesn't need those now," she says.  
  
"According to the most recent case of Rannsabeth v Yorik--" Foggy begins, ready to lawyer his way through this, the asshole Hudson Goodman's twin shoves her way forward.  
  
"Hey, are you the prick who stole our toy?" she asks accusingly. "Because if you aren't here to sell it back to its rightful owners, you can fuck off."  
  
Foggy is about ready to scream, and Matt smoothly interjects, "Ma'am, with all due respect, a legal sale and a robbery are quite different. Only the former took place last night."  
  
Her face turns purple and Foggy remembers to focus. "We're here for its textbooks and other materials from Columbia."  
  
The twin turns her enraged stare from Matt to him. "You're serious."  
  
"Extremely."  
  
"What are you gonna do if we don't give them to you?"  
  
"Well," Foggy says, smiling now, "I'll sue you, and given that every case of this sort from the past five years concerning study aids has found that the previous owners have to give those materials as well as pay the legal fees of the new owners, I'll look forward to beating you in court."  
  
She draws back, frowning. "It's not a study aid."  
  
"Any slave registered as a proper slave-student at a university, college, or other form of higher education is automatically a study aid, ma'am," Matt points out, poised.  
  
Foggy loves him in that moment, and adds on, "Are you trying to say you _didn't_ enroll it in Columbia? Because I'm afraid that not only you did, I have no less than five forms of proof that you did."  
  
The twin looks baffled and frightened. "I don't--it's a slave, you can fuck it, it wasn't _really_ a study guide, Mom just put it in Columbia so Dad would stop fucking all the paralegals, that's not a real study guide."  
  
Foggy stares at her, flat and cool, icewater in his veins. He hates her for talking about raping the person he'd seen not half an hour ago, scared and starved, like that.  
  
"It will be interesting to see how well that argument goes in court," he says coolly, and turns to go.  
  
"No! Shit, fuck, Dad will be super fucking pissed if this goes to court," the twin says, and the mother tells her, annoyed now, "Go get the fucking papers, Cynthia."  
  
Foggy turns back to the doorway, staring expectantly as best he can. Thank God he's seen all those legal drama movies with Ralph Fiennes.  
  
Cynthia runs and comes back with a trash bag full of books. Foggy opens it and checks; they're all there, the textbooks and notebooks for all of the subjects.  
  
"Do you want the things we used on--it it too?" Cynthia asks, out of breath from rushing around.  
  
Foggy stares. "No."  
  
"But aren't you going to fuck it too?"  
  
"No," he says, and picks up the bag, and turns to go.  
  
Matt says quietly in his ear as they walk away, back to the cab, "They're baffled at you."  
  
"Good." If terrible people couldn't understand you, that had to be good. Like how he relished Rosalind's disapproval now that he wasn't scared of her anymore. Evil cannot comprehend good, and all that.  
  
They go back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Langston Hughes' "Tired", here: http://ethiopienne.com/post/37511050225/tired


	49. this is peace and contentment. it’s new.

When they get back, BL is sitting flat on the floor, and Summer is sitting on the couch with a pair of scissors in her manicured hands, talking softly and cutting its hair.

"You've only got five or six more knots to go," she informs it. "You're doing good, keep it up."

Foggy watches, and BL's body language says _relaxed_ rather than terrified, now, so he breathes a sigh of relief and goes to put the textbooks away. Then he realizes there's no bookshelf space in the squat bookcase in the bedroom, so instead he carefully piles them up in the living room, near the couch.

God, is he going to have to get a bigger place for next semester?

Matt walks over to it, and sits down on the floor, smiling.

"How's it going?" he asks Summer, softly.

"Quite well," she said to him, and then turned her head to Foggy and added, "Matt's implied assessment was pretty much correct, Mr Nelson. It doesn't have an obedience problem, it had an owner problem. All that's really left are some burrs and bits and bobs to take care of, and some tests to run. When were you planning on shopping for clothes for it?"

Foggy thinks. "Tomorrow morning."

"Good, I'll come along to ensure it's got good public behavior as well," and she turns back to the hair.

Foggy picks up the phone from the table and carefully gives to to BL. "Hey, so Summer's doing your hair how you want it, right?"

There's a second where it looks confused, and then Summer says pleasantly, "Your owner asked you a question."

BL types quickly and hits the 'talk' button. "Yes, Foggy, and thank you for allowing me to have my hair how I want it."

"Good slave," Summer murmurs to it. "Matt, pass it the grape-soda scented bottle, if you approve it, Mr Nelson."

Foggy blinks and nods--Matt told him he can hear them, he concentrates on Foggy's body language pretty much all the time--and Matt hands BL the small thing.

It sniffs it and smiles. Then Foggy remembers what he has to ask it now, and sits down on the floor too. BL and Summer both give him Looks at that--it gives him a baffled 'the fuck are you doing' stare, and she gives him a distinctly predatory, scrutinizing gaze.

He ignores that, and says, "So that reminds me, uh, when I was getting thing from the disability office to get you set up there, one of the things I noticed was that I forgot there was even a singular they pronoun, which, how even, but the point is, it feels demeaning and wrong for me to refer to you as an 'it', would you rather I use 'they'?"

BL looks even more confused, and its eyes dart around the room, looking for answers.

Foggy thinks about how he reassures Matt that he wants his honest opinion, and says calmly, "All that will happen if you say you'd rather I use 'it' is that I'll use that pronoun. Seriously, I just want to know your honest opinion, because I am way worse at reading people than I thought I was, and I don't like the thought of me hurting you or Matt or anyone else by accident or on purpose."

BL blinks and thinks about it, glancing at Matt, who nods reassuringly, and just as Summer starts to murmur "Your _owner_ asked you a _question_ " it types out, "They, Foggy."

Foggy nods. Okay. He can do that for them.

"Thanks for telling me your honest preference," he says. "Also, what kind of food do you want to eat now that you probably can eat some?"

There's an awkward second, and then they type out, "Can I have something like mashed potatoes, if that's okay, Foggy?"

"Matt? Do we have the things for it?"

Matt nods. "I've got a box of instant mix, Foggy."

Foggy distantly remembers buying something like that, but-- "Why do we even have that?"

Matt explains, shrinking back a bit, "It's a good way to make soups thicker and creamier without adding in dairy, and you seem to dislike things that taste heavily of dairy, Foggy."

That's...well, he never thought of it like that, but that's true. Matt really does pay a lot of attention to everything he likes and dislikes.

"All done," Summer announces, running the brush through BL's hair one last time. "There you go, show your owner," and it stands up and twirls.

Their hair is now down to their shoulders in a cut that's layered to make it look longer and thinner than it was before, and Foggy didn't notice previously, but now that it's not greasy and smeared in fluids, it's a rather nice medium brown.

"The way that it's cut looks good with your face," Foggy says, not taking the bait to make some sort of creepy comment. He'll compliment them as much as he'll compliment Candace, and no further.

Summer arches an eyebrow at him, and then clears her throat. "Good job," she says, and stands up. "Now you ought to go sit down on the couch, if that's all right with your owner. You're still not in good shape."

BL looks at him, and Foggy says, "Uh, go sit down wherever you want," and they nod and go to the kitchen.

Matt's making the mashed potatoes and what, Foggy realizes, smells like some sort of frozen meatballs. Then he feels a surge of hunger, and grabs a glass of water, and then a second one for them too.

"Oh, that reminds me," Summer says, and gets something from her bag. "Here are the use-name-change papers, since there's not one listed on the official papers for them, I figured you'd want to add it on," and slides him a stack of three papers.

Foggy looks at them, and at BL, who looks both hopeful and afraid of it.

"Uh," he thinks about how to phrase it. "Do you want me to put 'Barely Legal', or just BL as initials, or some spelled-out version of 'Bee Elle' put down as your name? Again, seriously, all that will happen if you pick one is that's the one that will go on there."

They glance worridly at Matt, and Foggy thinks about what it could mean, and then he realizes.

"If you want, I could put it down as 'B-e-e-space-E-l-l-e' and Matt could still call you, uh, Barely Legal as a nickname, seriously, it's fine, lots of people have legal names besides their real ones."

They tilt their head and then type out, "B-e-e-space-E-l-le please, Foggy."

"Okay," he says and goes to write, and then the robotic voice says, "But can Matt still call me Barely Legal, Foggy, please?"

"Yeah," he says, and then realizes the normal rules are not in play here, and clears his throat. "Uh, like, I'm not your dad, I'm not going to be controlling every interaction you two have, just nobody hurts anyone else or--especially with sex, got it?"

Matt and Bee Elle both say, Matt offended and Bee Elle typing, "Yes, Foggy."

Foggy writes down _Bee Elle_ in the box, and signs the rest of the pages.

"I'll give it to the bureau office down in Queens when I go back to the hotel tonight, Mr Nelson," Summer says brightly.

Foggy arches an eyebrow. "Is she telling the truth, Matt?"

Matt says, "Yes, Foggy."

"Okay then," and he hands her the papers. There's something both sad and satisfied on her face as she gazes at Matt, like she's both proud of him and sad that he's not solely under her thumb anymore.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from "The Orange" by Wendy Cope, here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/136760766565/the-orange


	50. there are no words

Summer stands up before any food, and politely says, "Mr Nelson, if it's agreeable with you, Matt should help me carry down my bags."  
  
Matt tenses a little bit, because he's not sure who he should side with, but all Foggy says is a calm, "Matt, do you want to go with her?"  
  
Matt nods. He does. He wants a chance to talk to her, to maybe get a kiss on the forehead, to see if he's doing it right.  
  
Then he goes, turning off the burner and grabbing the keys, because Foggy nods too, and Summer needs absolutely no help to carry anything down.  
  
She waits until there's only two more flights of six left and says to him, "I'm proud of you."  
  
Matt feels a low, burning warmth spread throughout him.  
  
"I'm quite serious. You're doing better than I was at your age," and Matt blinks because that's another detail to a puzzle he keeps in the back of his brain and feels over every now and then, the how-did-she-come-about.  
  
She walks down the stairs, boots muffling the sound.  
  
"Your owner seems interestingly permissive," and Matt knows how to respond to that.  
  
"Foggy is very generous," he says. Not quite agreement. Not quite disagreement.  
  
"Mm. Don't let it go to your head."  
  
"What do you mean?" Matt frowns, because if there's something wrong with his behaviour--if he's being inappropriate and not realizing it--  
  
"I mean that too many good things can be bad for us," she says, soft and sad and this-is-for-your-own-good. "Remember that what is given can be taken away. That what we can get is fleeting, and not secure."  
  
Matt tilts his head. "My assessment of my owner is based on facts," he says, because it _is_. He's been living with Foggy for months now, owned by him for months. It's not as if he's bad at the game.  
  
She laughs softly. "I don't mean that you're not a doll, and you don't have it good. I mean that you can't lose your teeth from all that sugar."  
  
Matt sighs. "I'm training to keep in shape."  
  
"I noticed. That's also good. But I mean that this is a precarious situation. It's never good when an owner might need to sell you against even _their_ own will. His financials are not what they ought to be, to own you."  
  
Matt feels cold all over. "Do you think--"  
  
"I'm not saying anything is actually going to happen soon," and she almost hisses the next part, "I'm saying something awful _could_ happen at any time. Remember: you're in a cage with a cobra. Just because it's sleeping doesn't mean you don't need to be fast on your feet."  
  
Matt feels--he's not sure what it is for a minute, and then he realizes that it's a low, frozen anger. He's been taking care of himself. He can continue to do so.  
  
She bumps into his shoulder gently as they come to the edge of the building. "I'm still glad I trained you," she said quietly. "And sorry we had to sell you."  
  
Matt breathes in and out carefully. He doesn't let himself feel the familiar hurt and anger and edge-of-tears wailing that coils in him at that memory.   
  
They get to the door and to the car.   
  
Winter says to Matt, his voice fond, in Russian, "{Stay sharp. I'll see you more tomorrow night.}"  
  
Matt nods. "{Yes, sir,}" he murmurs, and it feels odd to be calling him sir when he just calls his owner Foggy.  
  
She gets in, and says to Matt, "{Sleep well tonight.}" and Matt returns it.  
  
As he climbs the steps back up, he thinks about when he was sold by them. She had cried, fixing his collar backstage before she had to go out. She'd had to redo her makeup.   
  
But Winter had still sold him, and she'd still talked him up.  
  
He thinks about her words, _Be brave, be strong, be good for me_.  
  
And he thinks, faintly, that he's almost glad they had to, because now he has Foggy.  
  
\--  
  
When Matt gets back and finishes the mashed potatoes, making a gravy from milk and a packet, Foggy realizes two things.  
  
One, Bee Elle looks actually slightly more tense now that Summer is gone, and two, Matt's not just making meatballs and gravy, he's making _Ikea Swedish meatballs and gravy_ and Foggy grins so hard his face hurts. He doesn't even remember getting it, but Matt must have put it on the list.  
  
Matt fetches it from the oven, and serves himself, Bee Elle, and Foggy all meatballs and mashed potatoes (that Matt put extra butter and garlic and chives in, and smell heavenly), and pours the gravy into a measuring pyrex cup.  
  
"I apologize, Foggy, we don't have a proper gravy boat," and Foggy almost laughs.  
  
"It's all good, Matt, serious that smells delicious. Pass me the gravy?"  
  
Matt does, and then Foggy passes it back, and as he starts to eat Matt puts some on his plate and puts it in front of Bee Elle, who looks like they saw a talking dog.  
  
"You can have some on yours if you want," Foggy mentions.   
  
They look from Matt to him, hair swishing.  
  
"I told you Foggy would feed you," Matt says cheerfully. "Even when he thought I was repulsive because Miss Sharpe took me for a test drive, he still fed me," and Bee Elle nods and pours some gravy over their plate, taking a fork and digging in delicately.  
  
Foggy almost doesn't hear the "Thanks, Foggy," because he's in shock.  
  
Matt thinks he thought Matt was _repulsive_? What--oh no.  
  
Oh, no. Oh, shit.  
  
Foggy clears his throat. He has to correct this misconception.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Langston Hughes' "Songs", here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/60214357137/i-sat-there-singing-her-songs-in-the-dark-she


	51. make me normal, please

"I didn't think you were repulsive," Foggy says, as firm as he can make himself put it. "I never did."  
  
There's an awkward second and Matt frowns against his will, apparently, or his confusion must show, because before he can say _of course, Foggy, I apologize for being mistaken_ , Foggy goes on, voice going softer, "Can I ask why you thought that? I want to make sure I don't give you that impression again."  
  
Matt takes a deep breath and makes sure his tone is as appropriately submissive and only mildly confused as he says, "Foggy, almost right away after you got me, apart from sometimes talking to me, you didn't touch me, or allow me in your bed, or speak to me most of the time."  
  
Foggy flinches a bit, and Matt hastily backtracks. "But I am so grateful, Foggy--you fed me all the time apart from that one day you forgot because you were sick, and I wasn't whipped or anything of that sort, thank you so much, Foggy--"  
  
He cuts Matt off. "Matt, I'm sorry I gave you the impression I thought you were disgusting, because you're not, and that was wrong of me. I was," and Foggy sighs. "I was honestly really, really disturbed, a lot, by the way that you acted--and don't apologize--" and Matt's mouth closes, "Because in retrospect that was entirely my mistake, my dick move, and also I just had no idea how to make you happy or do anything like that at all. I felt like I was walking on eggshells, and I decided to just avoid it, and that's why I did what I did, and I'm sorry."  
  
Matt blinks and tries to process it. Foggy-- _Foggy_ had felt like he was walking on eggshells? Matt had felt the whole time like he was in ballet heels with steak knives strapped to the bottom, desperately running all over the place so he didn't fall and impale himself.  
  
Matt thinks about it more even after he nods. He still couldn't quite understand it. Why hadn't Foggy just sat Matt down and said, "I want a doll, so tell me what you like so I can spoil you"? Why hadn't he told Matt what he _wanted_ , that he was going to recondition Matt into enjoying being owned by him even more?  
  
Matt realizes that what he feels is _angry_ , angry and resentful at his owner, and then feels a low swooping terror because that is beyond unsafe, it's suicidal.  
  
Bee Elle nudges him very carefully. "Matt," the robotic voice says, "Which of us should do dishes?"  
  
Oh. He thinks about it. "Can you? Were you ever trained for dishes?"  
  
Bee Elle's phone voice says, "Yes, but it was a long time ago. Why don't you show me with one of the plates and I'll figure out the rest."  
  
Matt nods. Now that he thinks about it more, that sounds like an okay idea. "I'll stand next to the sink," he says softly. "So you can't fall onto anything hard."  
  
Foggy clears his throat and both of their attention snaps to him.  
  
"Hey, just to make sure everyone's on the same page, clothing shopping tomorrow, and Bee Elle?"  
  
Their attention shifts to him, Matt can tell by their body language.  
  
"Don't worry about it too much, seriously, just get shirts you like and warm clothes that fit, I got money to pay for everything, okay?"  
  
Bee Elle nods and the robotic voice says, "Thank you, Foggy."  
  
Foggy sighs and runs a hand through his hair as he puts the plate away.  
  
"Good job, Matt, thank you, the food was really good," he says, and Matt glows a little on the inside with pride.

* * *

 

Matt's showing them how to wash off the plate--and it's actually much simpler than they were taught, really--when they nudge him and tap on his arm, [Did Summer make you hold naked poses too?]  
  
He blinks. His face is so cute when it's confused.  
  
"What?" he whispers.  
  
[Did Summer make you pose naked in various ways for lengths of time?]  
  
Matt nods. "Yes," he whispers, "Until I could hold one aerial silk naked pose at a party with about a hundred people for three hours without moving or flinching."  
  
Their lip twists.  
  
(It's very strange to be a they, and they're more than a little grateful to their new owner for all the thing they've been given. Food, blankets, a _name_ that was _theirs_ , _they_ instead of _it_ , being allowed to keep talking to Matt, even maybe touch him sometimes, a temporary trainer so they could be sure to be good for him.  
  
But the thing is that apparently even very high-class, nice training is still...scary. Still makes their gut clench tight. Still makes their heart beat so loud it drowns out everything else in their ears.)  
  
[I just wanted to know if it was special for me or not,] they tap, and Matt smiles a bit.  
  
"No," he murmurs softly, and the two of them switch places, and then he continues by tapping one of his elegant fingers against their upper arms. [It seems to be accelerated, but I remember the the training to get rid of body modesty. I remember pretty much all of it,] and his face is half nostalgia and half hurt, the way it is when slaves reminisce about previous owners.  
  
They nod and focus on the dishes. It warms up their hands all the way and when they're done, Matt takes a bold little risk and kisses their cheek, and they grin.  
  
Two more days. Two more days, and then there would be a routine, and Matt would help them get settled in, and things would be better.  
  
\--  
  
Foggy makes himself to go outside to call Anna. There's probably going to be angry shouting, and he doesn't need to give Matt and Bee Elle a panic attack.  
  
He dials and puts it up to his shoulder, clears his throat, and says, "Hey, Anna!"  
  
"Hey, Foggy," she says warmly. "Your father and your sister went to that one noodles place I can't stand, so I'm gonna put you on speaker while I keep kneading this new bread dough, mmkay?"  
  
Foggy made a noise of understanding and she did.  
  
"So, what's up? How did midterms go?"  
  
"Really well," he says, "Matt's got his 4.0 steady, and I'll probably only get one B. Anyway, uh, this isn't exactly a social call.  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"Yeah, okay, um, how can I put this..uh..when I get back and stay over for some of the December holidays, uh, there will be more than one person that I'm bringing with me."  
  
"What? Did you get a girlfriend?"  
  
Foggy blanches. "No, I--okay, it's kind of complicated, but basically, one of Matt's friends is a slave--was _enslaved_ and was going to be starved to death, so we kinda hatched a plan and uh, used the weird whimsical good will of one of his former owners, a super rich guy that I think is related to Bucky Barnes somehow, and now I have a second slave."  
  
There's a second, and then Anna groans. " _Franklin Edward Nelson_ \--"  
  
"No, don't--look, I know it's kind of crazy, but I could help them! I knew that I could, and, and, Anna--when I saw them, they looked horrible, they have _hundreds_ of scars on their arms from where I'm pretty sure people were _putting out their cigarettes_ on the skin, and their lips are peeling worse than that girl in _Speak_ , and Anna, _they don't have a tongue_ because someone cut it out of them for 'severe disobedience', Anna, I had to do something!"  
  
Anna is silent. Then she says slowly, "How exactly do you intend to afford to feed all three of you? And don't you dare tell me you intend to not feed those two as much as you--"  
  
"I am going to, Anna, jesus! I'm not actually Rosalind just because that's who you see when you look at me!"  
  
Oh, shit, that was not what he had meant to say. Foggy swallows and tries to grab hold of the conversation again.  
  
"I mean--Anna, look, I know you guys think I'm turning into her because I'm studying law--"  
  
"We don't think that at all. In fact, what we're worried about is your apparent desensitization to slavery, that you even accepted her 'gift' in the first place--"  
  
Foggy feels strange at that, incandescent with rage. "Anna," he says, drawing himself up, "If you think I would send back a human being to be raped by my biological mother just because I was _uncomfortable_ with him being around because it legally required I own him, you know me even less well than Rosalind Sharpe."  
  
(But he had raped Matt too--but at least he had stopped, and Matt had stopped trying to--test him? See if he'd do it again? And Foggy knew at least that he'd try to not do it again.)  
  
Anna says, eventually, "Please tell me you've got new money from somewhere to take care of them. Please tell me that. Matt is such a lovely, sweet boy, I don't want any harm coming to him, not at all, not ever. He saved my son."  
  
Foggy sighs and leans back against the building. "I have new money from somewhere. The crazy rich owner guy that Matt persuaded to buy and then give me his friend gave me money to go along with them too."  
  
"How much money? And don't lie to make me feel better."  
  
"$35,000 plus enough for two full rides to Columbia."  
  
Anna sucks her teeth. "Fuck me in the ass seven times in a church on a Sunday," and Foggy jumps back because he's only heard her swear three times in his life and all of those times were at her and Dad's wedding, and then he laughs and she laughs because it's so ridiculous.  
  
"Okay," she says finally. "Okay. So I don't have to worry about money for you. Okay. That's a weight off my shoulders."  
  
Foggy chews his lip. "I can give some of it to the family help-out fund--"  
  
"No you absolutely cannot, not until at least you graduate with a steady job, that's the rules," Anna says firmly.  
  
Then there's a few more minutes, and she says, "Foggy, if you're desperate to help slaves, let me..you should have a conversation with your Aunt Imelda, okay? I'll put her in touch with you. The two of you should have coffee or something, sometime. Talk about this."  
  
Aunt Imelda? The one who's actually been to a jail before, for a month, before her new attorney successfully got it declared a mistrial?  
  
"Aunt Imelda?" he asks, confused.  
  
"Your Aunt Imelda is quite politically active," Anna says brightly. "Now, that's the doorbell, so see you later!" and Foggy hangs up too because that is 100% not the doorbell because they don't actually have a doorbell.  
  
He sighs against the wall, feeling the cold seep in, and then resolves to go up and study some more and sleep until he doesn't feel so worn down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Warsan Shire's "The absence of an unnamed thing", here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/61718410725/the-absence-of-an-unnamed-thing


	52. falling into this set of structural and impersonal holes

Clothing shopping is a beautiful disaster the next day.  
  
To start off, Summer had shown up with an incredibly intricate hairstyle, golden tresses twisted and pinned into a giant rose on the side of her head, with a few strand fashionably out. She had also been wearing a different collar, one that was bright pink with a little heart-shaped clasp at the front, and smaller, darker pink polka dots along the leather. She had also greeted Bee Elle by telling her that today was the 'final hurdle' in terms of 'pushing through the fear to the obedience', which could mean absolutely nothing good at all.  
  
Foggy made a plan, and they walked to the same places he'd gotten Matt clothes. They had very good clearance sales.  
  
Bee Elle had frozen once they stood inside the store, staring at him with a distinct what-the-fuck-do-I-do look, all deer in the headlights.  
  
"Uh," Foggy said, and tried to think about how Anna went shopping when she had to, especially that time after Candace had set all of her clothes on fire. "I guess, fourteen shirts? Fifteen pairs of pants? Socks and--oh, yeah, you need bras, and underwear, and at least two coats, and let's just say seven sweaters? And a hat and gloves..."  
  
They looked like someone furiously trying to decipher some sort of code, and then Summer chimed in with, "I see a good sale on long-sleeved shirts over there!" and they went, Foggy grabbing a cart.  
  
It was hideously awkward interspered with little moments where Foggy felt relieved that at least Bee Elle showed preferences for things. They put stripes and polka dots, mostly, in the cart, and dark colors like green and brown rather than frilly or overly feminine.  
  
Each time before they touched anything, they looked at Foggy, and he said each time, "Seriously, whatever you want, it's totally fine, they're _your_ clothes," and they smiled and made that one hand gesture again--a flat hand from their mouth down, and then their fingers twitched into some shape that Foggy guessed meant him.  
  
Summer only made a couple of suggestions, saying cheerfully at the beginning, "If you're going to be fed properly, you might fill these out rather soon, better get a couple of sizes up," and Foggy gritted his teeth at her voice but the advice was actually pretty good, so Bee Elle's shirts were all huge and loose.  
  
There was a horrifying second after they had tentatively pulled a candy-corn-colored shirt off a rack, the first one, and glanced at Foggy, and Summer had started to say, "Okay, now take the one you've got off and let's see if that one fits to get a good idea of size," and Foggy had said without having to consciously decide to say it, "No, that's what changing rooms are for!"  
  
Summer had arched both eyebrows, giving him a fairly cool, evaluating stare, but then Bee Elle had told Foggy thank you and gone to a changing room, and after that, they tried on each shirt in the same one, like a normal person with bodily autonomy.  
  
Now they had thirteen shirts, and Bee Elle glanced at Foggy and then the short-sleeved ones on another row of racks.  
  
"I guess you should probably have one," Foggy said slowly. "But--you don't have to if you don't want to. It's your body, you get to show or not show as much as you want."  
  
Summer's face twitched in rage, looking demonic for a second, and then she visibly grabbed a hold of herself and smoothed it back out into calm.  
  
Matt looked tense for a minute too, and then his face became the expression he had sometimes when Foggy said things, a sort of...cooing. It was kind of like how Anna looked at Dad when he had just epically fucked something up, but she thought it was funny rather than annoying.  
  
Bee Elle stared at him, and then at Matt, and then at the ceiling, and then they plucked a short-sleeved shirt off the rack, grinning brightly.  
  
It was emblazoned on the front with the slogan _BITTER BITCHES CLUB_ in glittery pink, and the rest of it was baby-girl purple.  
  
Foggy's jaw dropped, and then Matt tilted his head and Bee Elle told him what was on the shirt in Morse, and he cracked up hard.  
  
"Foggy," he said with a small gasp, "Foggy, is there another one, can I have one too?"  
  
Foggy blinked and then smiled because Matt had _asked him for something_ , Matt asked him for things now, and said without thinking, "Sure, of course, whatever you want."  
  
Still laughing, Bee Elle and Matt found another one that might (only just might) fit Matt, and then they put it in the cart and headed off to go find pants, Bee Elle guiding Matt.  
  
\--  
  
After the rest of the clothes and shoes (five pairs of identical jeans, five pairs of sweatpants, five yoga-esque pants, two pairs of sneakers, a pair snow-boots, a pair of rain-boots, and a fifty-cent pair of flip-flops for the summer), Foggy intended to get out of there and go home and collapse, but then Summer chirped, "Collar store next, Mr Nelson?"  
  
Foggy stopped. "What?"  
  
"Surely you've noticed that Matt only has one collar, Mr Nelson, and Bee Elle here only the one they were wearing when they were sold?"  
  
Foggy swallowed. No, he hadn't noticed, his eyes almost didn't see the collars anymore because they were so disturbing. Fuck.  
  
He made himself look at Bee Elle's neck, and saw the hints of chafe marks from the rounded metal collar. Fuck. Okay then.  
  
"Okay," he said. "Uh, let me find the closest one--"  
  
"It's to your left," Matt said quietly. "I can smell the leathers, Foggy."  
  
Okay, that was fucked up, but that was fine. "Okay then," Foggy sighed out. "Let's, uh, go there and then get home. The other things--like shampoo--are actually cheaper on Amazon."  
  
"Yes, Foggy," Matt said politely, and they all walked to to the left.  
  
The collar store was called _Moriarty's Collar Emporium_ and proclaimed to be the 'one-stop collar shop for all occasions'.  
  
"Is this a sleazy place or is it just me?" Foggy muttered to Matt, half-curious, mostly nauseated.  
  
"Moriarty's has a fairly good reputation," Matt murmured. "It's not quite as good as the place you bought my collar from, but it's not as expensive, either."  
  
Well. That was fine.  
  
Foggy walked in, feeling like a gladiator going to face the lions for the first time.  
  
Immediately he was struck by how everything seemed more and more dissonant the more he looked at it. There were rows upon gleaming rows of collars in every color. Most of them were leather, and the space stank of it, but Foggy spied a small side room of metal ones, and then a section near the register with fabric collars.  
  
"Let's get one of those," Foggy said. "They, uh, they're more comfortable, right?"  
  
Bee Elle glanced at him incredulously and Matt saved the moment, saying, "Yes, Foggy, leather is less comfortable unless it's very softened," and then Foggy started to pick his way through the aisles, trying to not lose his shit as he saw more and more demeaning names and ads for collars.  
  
Punishment Leash. Fixer-Upper. For That Special Someone. Pet collars half off. Padlocks come free with a purchase of two or more. Get a customized fit for only $10 today. Extra clips for more than one leash. Choke-proof. Child-proof. Shock collar (not advised without medical equipment in case of malfunction). Microchip collar. Amelia Ernst's Specially Designed Collar For That Good Boy or Girl in Your Life, with Slots For Order-Cards. Sleep collar. Harness and leash come half off with this very selective offer. For a limited time only, get a training session free with any purchase of fifty dollars or more. Rainbows for pride parades. Spike collar to teach the pet 'paws off'. Bells and Whistles, 100 per package. Rhinestones to decorate a good girl's pretty little necklace. Comfort Collar for When It's Earned A Treat. Fur collar for cold weather.  
  
Foggy did not kill anyone or break anything or run out of there screaming. It was an achievement.  
  
He forced himself to focus on Matt and Bee Elle, to gauge their distress. This was not about him and how much he wanted to set this place on fire. This was so that they could have some, for them, and satisfy their fucked-up conditioning.  
  
Foggy didn't panic. Instead he headed to the fabric ones.  
  
Unfortunately, this brought them close to the shop owner, who grinned at Foggy and came over.  
  
"Well hello, and good morning to you!" The man greeted cheerfully. "I can see you're collar shopping, any particular things in mind?"  
  
"What's most comfortable but also machine-washable?"  
  
The man looked confused. His hair was in a small man-bun, and he wore large hipster glasses and an Aquaman shirt with his name badge. It said his name was Botswana.  
  
"Well, we've got a good selection right here of pretty comfy collar for when they've earned a treat," and he waved a hand over the wall. There were a lot of collars there in every color. "Soft polyester's pretty nice. Want me to grab that box and you can find one you like?"  
  
Foggy took a deep breath and glanced at Bee Elle. They looked nervous but not terrified. "Yeah, sure," he said.  
  
The man grabbed the box with a claw tool, and Foggy glanced in. "What's the color you'd want it to be?" he asked Bee Elle.  
  
They looked confused but then their hand came forward to touch one--  
  
And the guy, Botswana, smacked their hand. "No!" he snapped, like was talking to a dog.  
  
Foggy went absolutely cold all over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also comes from Anne Boyer's "what resembles the grave but isn't".


	53. I want it to confirm your worst fears about me

They cringed backwards on reflex, stepping behind Matt before they could stop themselves--  
  
But Foggy didn't follow it up with a smack of his own. Instead he said, in a voice like the eye of a hurricane, "I'd like to speak to your manager."  
  
The guy who had whacked their hand--not even hard, it stung only a bit now--looked startled and said, "Uh, sure, let me just get him--" and went over and rang a bell on the counter.  
  
Matt asked them, quietly, "Your hand hurt?"  
  
They shook their hand out and wriggled their fingers, and then shook their head. It didn't, really. They'd had their hands hurt way worse--canes or being slammed in a car door or, once at the center, when one of the new overseers had gotten _really_ angry, utterly lost his temper, a table dropped on it.  
  
(That overseer had been summarily put down for costing the center the money necessary to get them proper care to make sure their hands weren't completely useless.)  
  
Their owner--Foggy--seemed still furious and purposeful, and when the manager came over, he said with pure ice, "I need your name and the name of your supervisor as well."  
  
"Uh, why?" The manager was a very tall, skinny man with dyed tomato-red hair.  
  
"Because I'm going to sue this store for damages as well as pursue charges against your employee for _assault_ ," Foggy said. "Now, your name, and 'Botswana's full name."  
  
The manager's face crinkled. Matt murmured, daringly, "Foggy, people aren't charged with assault against slaves, they are charged with property damage and theft."  
  
"Fine, property damage and theft, as well as damages," Foggy said. "And I need those names."  
  
The manager drew back. "Can I ask what the problem's been? I'm quite happy to help in any way I can."  
  
"I bet you are," Foggy said, voice more and more arctic as he spoke. "And the problem is your employee _hitting_ my friend here, as if that is in any way, shape, or form acceptable."  
  
His eyes looked calculating, fierce. It made something in their stomach uncurl.  
  
Matt was right, his owner really was nowhere near as bad as he'd first thought.  
  
The manager gaped at him, and then straightened. "JOHN," he hollered. "GET YOUR ASS BACK HERE!"  
  
John slunk back from where he'd run off to.  
  
"My nametag says Botswana," John muttered.  
  
"Because I let you put down that stupid name, because you wish you had been named that since it would be more 'unique'," the manager said, annoyed. "Bro, you hit this guy's slave?"  
  
"I tapped its hand! It was going to touch merchandise!"  
  
" _John_ ," the manager groaned out. "John, you can't _do_ that, it's actually a crime. You absolutely--John, you stupid fuck--" and the manager pinched his nose, at the bridge.  
  
"Nobody else has ever minded," John muttered. "One of them even said it was good to help reinforce that they shouldn't touch things without asking."  
  
" _John_ ," the manager whined out. "I can't believe you, bro. I took a chance hiring you for this fucking job, and you go out and do this? That's it, I'm exercising the rights given to me by our head of outlet, you're fucking fired."  
  
John stepped back, stricken. "What?"  
  
"You're fucking fired. You'll damage the whole reputation of the store. God, you fucking moron, I can't believe this," the manager said. "Put your nametag behind the counter and get out before you fuck up everything worse."  
  
John stared at him, and started to cry piteously, and then stomped off.  
  
The manager turned back to Foggy, who looked not in the least bit appeased.  
  
"Mister, let me make this up to you," he said. "Please don't press charges, it'll come out of my wage. But I can offer you a 100% discount on everything, all the merchandise, as well as a free warranty for three months on the metal and the ones that need dry-cleaning. Please don't sue us, the courts hate companies like this in suits like that."  
  
Foggy stared at him flatly. "Go away," he said. "I'll handle the rest of this without any of your employees _assaulting people_."  
  
The manager slunk off, frightened, and they breathed out a sigh of something. Relief?  
  
\--  
  
Bee Elle eventually plucked out of the polyester collars in a dark, muted blue, and a red, and gently pushed the red at Matt and then at Foggy.  
  
Oh, they meant that it could be for Matt, too. "Yeah, that's a good idea," Foggy said, because now that he thought about it, Matt did need more than one collar. "Hey, Matt, do you like red?"  
  
And then he winced, but before he could apologize for asking the blind guy what his favorite color was, Matt said politely, "From what I remember, I like red a lot, Foggy."  
  
From what--oh, Matt hadn't always been blind, had he? Maybe Foggy could ask him about that sometimes. And find out more of when his dad died.  
  
Foggy nodded. "Okay, then those two. But we probably need more," and Bee Elle glanced at a shelf of cotton, and Foggy got those down too.  
  
He ended up holding five different collars for Bee Elle in polyester, cotton, fleece-lined leather, braided buttery-soft leather, and silk-lined leather. They had been far more tentative than even when they had been picking out underwear or shoes, but Foggy coaxed as the four of them walked, gently encouraging them to just pick it and not worry about cost or color, he was fine with whatever as long as it wouldn't give them sores or anything.  
  
Matt also ended up picking out a silk-lined leather collar, and an artificial angora one that was so fuzzy it looked like a turtleneck.  
  
Then Summer cleared her throat and Foggy jumped, having almost forgotten she was there, and said, "They ought to try on the collars, both of them, before you buy them, Mr Nelson."  
  
That sounded true, so Foggy breathed in and out and turned around to find a place for them to try it on.  
  
"Is there a back room anywh--there one is," and he went and was about to stay outside on reflex, but Matt asked, "Um, Foggy, I won't know if they look acceptable, can you--"  
  
Foggy blinked. Oh, right. "Yeah, sure," he said, and came in.  
  
But Bee Elle's collar wasn't just metal, it was...seamless somehow, or welded, and Foggy had no idea how to get it off.  
  
Matt frowned as he felt it, too, and said, "The mechanism to open it is broken, Foggy, I can feel it stuck in place."  
  
Bee Elle looked terrified, body shrinking in fear away from him, and Foggy made himself not look freaked-out or angry. Instead he said, "How should we get it off, then?"  
  
"I can help," Summer offered from outside the room. How had she heard them?  
  
But if she could, well, Bee Elle needed that thing off their neck, so Foggy let her come in.  
  
He wasn't sure what she was about to do, but then her hands came and wound themselves so the metal was in her hands, almost choking Bee Elle, and he was about to ask what she was doing--  
  
And then her hands _pulled_ and _bent_ the collar, back and forth in rapid succession, twisting and pulling thin, and then part of it snapped, and she wrenched the rest open and off Bee Elle's neck.  
  
She dropped the metal on the floor. Foggy gaped, jaw on the floor, staring at the visible fingerprint marks in the steel.  
  
How the fuck--?  
  
But then he had to get them out of here as quickly as he could, so he forced himself to hand them the collars in his hands.  
  
They tried them on, Bee Elle and Matt, both of them too freaked out to try taking off or clasping shut either of the collars by themselves, and each time they dropped their hands and offered their necks for Foggy to do it, Summer said something approving to Matt in German and a quick " _Good_ slave" to Bee Elle, touching their cheek or hand.  
  
Foggy did not kill her, and that was an achievement.  
  
The assfuck manager kept his word, even wishing them a happy day as Foggy left with all the money he'd had at the start after Foggy got his name and the piece of shit John's name as well, and Foggy had snapped "Oh go fuck a duck!", he couldn't help himself.  
  
Matt had hid his face in Foggy's shoulder and laughed at that, and Bee Elle had even grinned too.  
  
\--  
  
Once they got home, Matt went to go get them all food in the form of grilled cheeses, and Foggy went to go make some calls.  
  
One to file a suit of property damage against the motherfucker who had _hit_ Bee Elle right there--there were security cameras in Moriarty's, Foggy had seen them record it--and one to start the process to get Hudson Goodman kicked out of Columbia for that too, now that Foggy remembered he had hit Matt the day the plan to rescue Bee Elle had been put in place.  
  
He smiled nastily, toothily, to himself as he went along.  
  
Nobody got away with hitting people under Foggy's care. Nobody.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Kim Addonizio's "What Do Women Want", here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/125274466115/what-do-women-want


	54. what is familiar tends to be experienced as safer, even if it is a predictable source of terror

Matt focused on his studying after making the food as Foggy made calls, half an ear listening to him. It was odd how relaxed he felt; his owner was angry, and yet he wasn't very tense, or expecting punishment. The world felt upside-down.  
  
But then again, Foggy had only punished him once, and only after Matt had begged and begged and explained why he needed it, and only for a very serious infraction. Ever since then, Matt hadn't been punished, and even before then, the period of ignoring him until he cracked apparently hadn't been meant as punishment at all. Foggy directed his anger very strictly at the people he was angry with, and not at Matt, like almost every other owner he'd ever had had done.  
  
Yet another thing that indicated Foggy needed some therapy. It wasn't like Matt wanted to be whipped, but surely just _dealing with_ anger about things you couldn't fix without using the best tool at hand wasn't healthy.  
  
Matt breathed deeply and meditated, pretending to re-read the section he had just memorized. He used the familiar thoughts about how to control anger, how to divert it. Not how to bury it--buried things grew roots and sprouted up and strangled you from the inside out--but how to divert the resentment he felt at Foggy not just telling him what he _wanted_ from the beginning away from his skin and fists and voice and face to the wellspring, the cave-lake deep inside him where anger lived.  
  
Matt imagined diverting the rivers and falling down into the cave with the water, diving, the cool of the lake on his face. He imagined touching the very bottom of the lake where the devil lived inside of him, imprisoned for all time, and then going back up, breathing in and out, surrounded by the anger, feeling every drop of it. Dad dying, the nuns not stopping Stick, nobody stopping Stick, Stick adopting him, Stick selling him, Stick _leaving_ him, being sold, being thrown away, being sold again, every insult, every brush-off, every auction house employee who tried to trick him, every dead slave, every overseer's sneer in their tone, Foggy insulting him, Foggy thinking he was incompetent, Foggy not telling him _see, I want a doll more than anything, so tell me what you like so I can play with my doll the way I want_ , Summer coming back and insinuating that Matt wasn't competent enough to read his owner's desires, Bee Elle's thin body in his arms.  
  
He imagined slowly climbing out of the pool and onto a section of marble busts that served as rocks, and slowly kneeling there in the sunlight, the warmth on his skin. He imagined it drying him as he turned from kneeling to lounging, and once he was dry Matt imagined finding a foothold and climbing back up out of the cave, away from his anger.  
  
He took a deep breath and let his senses for the real world come back. He was calm now, the rage still there, but as tranquil as it was going to get.  
  
Matt's head felt so much clearer afterwards. He realized just how inappropriate some of this thoughts were, and felt achingly shameful. But then he remembered how he'd reminded himself of his place in the world before, with bobby pins and hurting knees, and nodded to himself. He'd do that again tonight; Bee Elle was a heavy sleeper once they actually nodded off.  
  
He went back to studying, and the text mentioned someone named _Thurgood Marshall_ , which was a bizarre enough name that Matt immediately felt intrigued, and he put a note in his calendar to look up more about him during the week.  
  
\--  
  
Once Foggy was satisfied that he'd done all he _could_ do for the situation and had made sure Summer wasn't egregiously hurting Bee Elle (she wasn't; she was brushing their hair and having them catch up on their recent work, because they had missed enough that it made them 'not as useful as they needed to be'), he went into the kitchen, ate the sandwich Matt had made him, made sure to tell them that they could eat whenever and however much they wanted, fished out his tablet that he almost never used now that his computer had stopped glitching with Netflix, gave it to them, and then went back on Amazon.  
  
He searched for a while, and eventually got some good plastic storage containers that would work as a combination bookshelf, dresser, and side-table for Bee Elle. Unless they slept in Matt's bed and Matt with Foggy in Foggy's bed (and this absolutely would not happen, there was far too high a risk of Foggy slipping and raping Matt again), they'd have to sleep on the couch, and he also made sure to get some more pillows and soft blankets.  
  
Foggy sighed and rubbed at his eyes. Anna had once told him he was too tenderhearted for his own good, and he'd asked her why it was wrong to want to take care of people. She had said that if you weren't careful you'd burn out, and he felt like he was on fire, slowly.  
  
Ugh. How would be manage to not burn out?  
  
Well, he could always try therapy. If nothing else, his health insurance through Columbia would cover at least some in the area, and if not, he smiled a bit at the idea of using some of the tuition Summer had double-paid him for law school, unaware that Rosalind had already given him enough for him and Matt to get a full ride, to get himself therapy. It would be a kind of good revenge.  
  
Foggy sighed and ran a hand over his face. Matt and Bee Elle needed therapy much more than him, he knew, and he felt selfish. But the only thing like therapy slaves got was 'training', and apparently the _nice_ trainers were like the astonishingly creepy woman in his living room, so that went out of the window.  
  
But if Foggy had a mental breakdown, it would put them both in an incredible amount of danger. He loved his family, he really did, but they didn't know _Matt_ well enough to avoid doing awful things to him by accident, much less Bee Elle. He couldn't quite trust them.  
  
He thought about it more, realized he hadn't ordered Bee Elle any sort of books for fun or toiletries, got his laptop, and went to go get their opinion on which ones they wanted the most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from this: http://www.traumacenter.org/products/pdf_files/preprint_dev_trauma_disorder.pdf


	55. pick the worms off me like sticky pearls

They're halfway caught up through the readings when Foggy calls, "Hey, uh, Bee, you want to come in here so I can order the shampoo and things in the scents you want?"  
  
They blink in shock, and then look at Summer and pinch themselves to see if they're dreaming, because this whole day has seemed exceedingly weird.  
  
"Your owner gave you an order," she says mildly, her face serene from where she's sitting behind them, and they scramble to their feet, keeping the tablet (and what a gift that was, what would Foggy want for it) with them and hurrying down the hallway.  
  
They're inside the room before they realize, and freeze. Owner's bedrooms are _not safe places_ , but then again, Matt's in there, on a bed that's not where Foggy's sitting.  
  
Does Matt have a separate bed? That's--odd. From what they know of dolls--not much, they had been a chew-toy, rather different--they're sort of...touched and cuddled all the time. They would have expected Matt to sleep in the same bed as Foggy.  
  
But the no-sex rule occurs to them again. Maybe Foggy has some religious thing about no sex, even with slaves, before marriage? What did he even think counted as sex?  
  
Anyway, they refocus on what Foggy's showing them. It's a page of what looks like shampoos and conditioners, and Foggy says, "Anyway, do you know what smell and type you'd like?"  
  
They blink. All these choices are difficult, much more than their degree in engineering was.   
  
Then something occurs to them.  
  
They slowly type on the tablet, "Is there anything to make hair thicker, Foggy?" because really, they'd like to stop noticing the parts where the mats were cut out soon. It makes them feel like they're crawling on the floor or defiantly spitting out things or in the cage with the blanket thrown on top or chained to the coffee table.  
  
"Yeah, these ones. Do you care about how they smell?"  
  
They think frantically, and feel relieved that for all her perfectionism, Summer had made them rank the scents.  
  
"Are there any with grape scent, Foggy?"  
  
Foggy looks it over and says, frowning, "No. There's lemon and apple and cherry, any of those sound good?"  
  
It's a trick, very obvious one too--but then again, they think about the store, how _angry_ Foggy had been because they'd been slapped, how he had flatly insisted that they use a changing room, how he had icily pointed out to the attendant that there was no sign saying no slaves.  
  
They type, "Apple, please, Foggy, if that's okay?" They hate the begging, it makes them feel shaky, those cunts had always laughed at their begging, but Foggy just nods and puts apple conditioner and apple shampoo in the basket.  
  
Next is shower gels, and they bite their lip and it bleeds and they come up with a 'mango champagne' smell.   
  
Then Foggy puts in chapstick in the cherry scent and they're starting to feel like this is building up to a very mean mind-game where Foggy's going to do something nasty to them for choosing things instead of just parroting out _whatever you want, Foggy_ , but it doesn't come.  
  
Instead, at the end, he says, "This is very awkward, but uh, pads or tampons?"  
  
They blink. And blink. And turn their head sideways at him, and stare hard.  
  
"Tampons, please," they type out, because pads feel like diapers and _that_ makes them actually vomit when they think about it too hard, and it's not like they can afford to lose calories or stand to eat food twice, not when their skin is still so damn cold. They wonder if Foggy will want to put them in. That's not exactly sex, is it?  
  
They shiver in the sweatshirt.  
  
"Odds are they won't menstruate for some months anyway, Foggy," Matt offers up from where he's reading quickly with both hands. "Starvation tends to do that."  
  
Foggy's face goes thunderous and they draw back--Matt, no, don't get yourself punished over me, we're supposed to be a team--but then he just breathes out and says, "Cool. Anyway, I wanted to ask you really quickly--are you okay? Summer hasn't done anything that hurts you, right? Not seriously?"  
  
They're not sure how to respond to it. Summer is still so beautiful it hurts, still so lovely they could cry from pleasure whenever Summer gives them a sweet earned kiss on the forehead or the cheeks or, after they had first done the naked pose she'd ordered them into, shaking but not curling back up and hiding like they wanted to, on the mouth. It had been chaste but _so_ good.  
  
But at the same time, there's an undercurrent with Summer, like she finds them a painting that's not quite finished, and it's her job to fill in any imperfections. The words _I intend to rebuild your mind_ echo and echo in their head, and it feels like a very fancy way of saying _kill you and put someone better inside your body_.  
  
However, there's only the rest of tonight and tomorrow left with her, and they still want to be around her, want nothing more than her approval, it feels so incredible to be told for once that they're good, they're not worthless or just a receptacle for pain, to be called _good slave_ like they weren't since they had a tongue.   
  
So instead they shrug, hoping Foggy won't think that's a non-answer worthy of punishment.  
  
Foggy sighs. "Let me know if anything happens that really freaks you out, okay? I care about you, even though I don't think I really know you all that well yet."  
  
They nod, and all three of them go back to studying for the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also comes from Sylvia Plath's "Lady Lazarus".


	56. we are inside a system of humiliation from which there is no escape for us

Matt overhears Bee Elle and Summer in the living room as he continues with the slightly more boring sections of the homework, and he can't work out _why_ Foggy dislikes her so much.  
  
"Now," she's murmuring, "Now do you see how much better things are when you're obedient? When your owner's happy? Do you understand how things are supposed to be, what you're striving for?"  
  
Bee Elle's voice is very quiet when the tablet reads it out.  
  
"Good job. _Good_ slave. Now, say it with me: I am not worthless. I am not useless. I can be productive, I can be important, I can be worthwhile."  
  
They type it again.  
  
"Again, like you believe it. Hands too."  
  
Their robotic voice is a little bit louder at that.  
  
"Good job. Here you go," and Matt can hear the soft scrape of her nails on their scalp.  
  
There's nothing bad happening to them. He doesn't get why it is that Foggy is so worried.  
  
But then again, it appears that Foggy intends for both of them to be his dolls, which is both a relief--Matt's not sure how ripped in half he'd feel if Foggy decided one was for punishing both of them or something similar, and there was a slight chance Foggy would decide that since they were a female slave, they should be the doll instead of him--and a worry, because now they have to work out which of them is higher-up and how to get them both the best they can have.  
  
Matt sighs. And here he had been, thinking he wouldn't have to deal with fighting other slaves for the owner's approval. _Stupid_ to be getting so comfortable. Of course now that Foggy's gotten a taste he wants all the slaves he can get.  
  
But maybe...maybe Matt can prove that they can't be dominant over him and shouldn't try, and then they can accept it and Matt can be careful to not then become an overseer--unless, of course, if tomorrow Foggy appoints him as one.  
  
He chews his lip. Whatever happens will be after Summer leaves.  
  
After she leaves. Again.  
  
Matt frowns to himself, letting most of his brain focus on studying and only a very small part be quietly, quietly emotional about the thought.  
  
There's a complicated knot in his chest on the subject, pain and fear and rage and hopeless hurt, a _what did I do wrong, please take me back_ and a _you promised things would be better with Winter, you promised me_ and a _I shouldn't have expected it to last anyway_.  
  
He gets yanked out of his brewing storm when Foggy says, "Oh, shit, it's about eight, I'm hungry as hell, let's get pizza."  
  
Matt ducks his head and smiles. Since a few weeks ago, he's realized that Foggy is even more affectionate and adorably concerned about what Matt likes when it comes to pizza.  
  
("What do you mean you don't have a favorite topping?" Foggy had said, incredulous but not angry.  
  
"Most of my owners only very rarely ate pizza, Foggy," Matt had said. "And the ones that did didn't want me either gaining weight or taking any of it, since it was a treat for people and not me. Mistress Sharon sometimes let me have some with her pet after she used us, but not more than I believe four times," and he'd been nervous about bringing up his previous owners, but daring. Foggy hadn't punished him for it so far.  
  
Foggy had seemed pissed at that, but all he'd done was fiercely hug Matt, reiterated again that he was never going to have sex with Matt ever ever again, and ordered three small pizzas with each quarter having different toppings so that Matt could try them all out.  
  
As they had determined, Matt liked chicken, bacon, sausage, pepperoni, mushrooms, and strongly disliked pineapple, sweet peppers, barbecue sauce, ranch sauce, broccoli, Philly cheesteak, and anchovies.  
  
Matt had almost lied about the ranch sauce, since Foggy really seemed to love it, but he had emphasized that it was fine to like different things, really Matt it's completely fine, I'll just get us two pizzas in the future, I should do that anyway, seriously, and he'd bitten his lip but admitted it, and nothing bad had happened.)  
  
"Hey," Foggy says to Bee Elle as they walk into the kitchen-living-room area, and Matt sits in a chair like Foggy likes. "So I know you don't have a tongue, and therefore can't taste thing, but I did want to ask you--are there foods with, I dunno, better textures than others? Do you experience something like taste through smelling food? I ask because we're getting pizza and I want to know which toppings you like, if you like any."  
  
\--  
  
Their eyes dart about wildly at that, and Foggy pushes down the urge to kill everyone that's ever made them scared of answering questions and making choices, but then the tablet's better app says, "Some foods smell better than others, Foggy."  
  
"Okay, cool," Foggy says brightly. "So, any pizza toppings you think smell gross, to avoid?"  
  
They look confused but hopeful, and type out, "I don't like how anchovies smell, Foggy."  
  
But there's something about their facial expressions as they say it, the way their back goes from mostly relaxed to hunched, that tells him that there's something more than just the smell.  
  
A low, horrible suspicion rises in his mind, calling up all those jokes about tuna and vagina smelling the same, but he doesn't say anything about it. He's already decided to let them and Matt bring it up if they want to, but not push. He's not going to make them think about all the hideous things that have happened to them.  
  
"Okay," Foggy says. "So, let's get three pizzas then, one without any toppings, one with--hey, Matt, which ones do you feel like?"  
  
Matt looks thoughtful. "Half sausage and half chicken-bacon, Foggy, if that's alright?"  
  
Foggy nods. "Okay, so one with just cheese, one half chicken-bacon and half sausage, and one with mushrooms and ranch sauce on the side. Cool," and he calls and orders.  
  
But as the pizza actually comes and Bee Elle meticulously stacks the textbooks near the couch, they look more and more apprehensive.  
  
Summer clears her throat. "We're almost finished, Mr Nelson," she says with a small smile. "I should be going now, I've errands to run. I'll see you tomorrow for the final testing of your newest acquisition," and she's about to go when the apartment gets buzzed for the pizza.  
  
Which, Foggy thinks wryly as he ends up alone with her, going down the stairs, she probably set up on purpose.  
  
"So, Mr Nelson," she said pleasantly. "I see you're not as used to being an owner as most of those whose services my owner has loaned me out to perform for."  
  
That's one hell of a convoluted, ungrammatical sentence, and Foggy wonders if she's translating from a different language in her head.  
  
Foggy says nothing, then, "I'm not an asshole, that is absolutely true," he says, calm. "Thanks."  
  
She tilts her head. "You do realize that mollycoddling us isn't exactly good for slaves, right, Mr Nelson? You're not doing Matt or Bee Elle any favors by sandpapering off their sharp edges."  
  
Foggy doesn't scream. Instead he thinks about there's just tomorrow and then she'll fucking _leave_.  
  
He thinks about the mock debates that he's been in, how Matt is stunningly good at them. Matt never raises his voice or goes for personal attacks or stutters over points or tries to bargain for getting the other side. Matt, instead, always speakings at a conversational volume--and a quiet one at that--but he _wins_ them, even slightly more often than Foggy.  
  
Foggy thinks about how his jaw had gone through the earth's crust when he'd first seen Matt clear his throat and speak at one.  
  
He channeled that utter serene calm and determination as he dodges that particular blow.  
  
"It's good for people to be around people who aren't interested in hurting them," he says, making sure he's not shouting.  
  
She arches a brow. "You have to understand, Mr Nelson, we aren't actually people. I know we make a convincing facsimile, and it might be a very comforting delusion for you to cling to, but thinking of a slave as a person when no-one else in the world does does it no favors."  
  
Foggy stares. "Maybe," he offers, "If _everyone_ understood that slaves were people, we could end slavery."  
  
She snorted derisively. "I hadn't thought you were _stupid_ , Mr Nelson. Merely soft-hearted. You seriously believe slavery can be ended? That it wouldn't collapse the entire world economy, plunge the globe into a dark age of famine and death?"  
  
Foggy feels like he's wearing one of those masks they give people in certain parts of India, the face ones you put on the back of your head so the tigers won't eat you. "I think that strength is for carrying," he says.  
  
She looks confused.  
  
"I think that the point of being strong, or wealthy, or having a lot, is to give it to other people. I think that the point of having a talent is to use it for good. And I think that we don't need slavery to do anything great."  
  
Her lips press into a thin line. "What a mighty fine high horse you like to ride."  
  
Foggy cleared his throat. Only one flight left. He doesn't have the energy to keep engaging. "See you tomorrow?"  
  
"The final test will be a very public lunch," she announced. "My owner's treat. See you tomorrow, Mr Nelson," and she exits past the pizza girl.  
  
Foggy gets the pizzas, pays the delivery person, tips the delivery person, and turns to go back upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also from Andrea Dworkin's "I Want a Twenty-Four-Hour Truce During Which There Is No Rape".


	57. I want to sit here and pick at the scabs, watch the blood flow, lick the salt from my face

Halfway through the first slice, Bee Elle's hands are audibly shaking, and Matt decides to do something nice for them, an olive branch. Maybe they don't need to fight.

"Is it difficult to eat things like this because you can't move the food around?" he asks them softly.

They shake more, but then Matt swallows any fear and turns his attention to Foggy, who is very deliberately saying nothing.

"Foggy, is it possible--could they also, ah, drink those supplement drinks if that's easier for them?"

Their hand grabs Matt's, squeezing tight, painful, a _stop getting yourself in trouble over me_ , and Matt squeezes back, _it's fine_.

"Sure, eat whatever you want whenever you want," Foggy says easily, with a forced casualness. Matt feels a flush of shame for how he'd been angry at him earlier. He should never be so ungrateful for such a nice owner.

They put down the pizza slice and, daringly, slowly, get out a can and drink it, and when Foggy says absolutely nothing on the subject, no _sit there and let me get my tools_ , their heartbeat stops hammering.

Matt smiles. He's so much better at understanding his owner now.

But then Foggy says, "Matt, so, uh, Summer," and he injects venom into that name, and Matt shrinks back, "said that the 'final test' would be a public lunch? Is there anything I should know about that?"

Matt considers it, and turns to Bee Elle, whose heartrate has gone sharply up as well. He feels sorry for them, that they can't spend more time with her, stop being so irrationally afraid of her. She was really kind and patient and had helped him so much.

(Even if she had _left_ him.)

"Don't take everything she says as literal truth, Bee Elle," he says slowly, "You can't hear her heartbeat, and Foggy--I'm happy to tell if either of them are lying--" he gulps at the thought, but it's only right that his skills are at his owner's disposal, "But she doesn't always say things just because they're true. She might..if it's anything like the tests she administered to me, a lot of the more--cutting--things she'll say are just things to strengthen your composure, your patience, get you to take a firmer hold of your temper. She doesn't actually mean most of them.

"And Winter might...I don't know if he'll do it, but for a long time he was the one to help me get rid of my startle reflex, and my reflex of cringing at pain, so he would surprise me, usually with a slap or a thud, so if he does that, don't react too much."

Matt thinks it over more, and then takes a bite and chews. Once he's swallowed that, he adds, "And--follow my lead, Bee, I don't think you've been at the sort of place we'll be going to, they have a separate protocol to follow."

Foggy sounds both angry and calm as he says, in the ringing silence, "Any specifics?"

Matt blinks. Of course Foggy doesn't know. "Depending on the place--well, most likely it'll be one of the places with separate, sealed-off booths, and there will be cushions provided, and probably a little side table to keep the slaves' foods on, so that the owners can more easily feed them--"

Foggy breathes in sharply, and Matt closes his mouth. He knows better by now than to keep talking about it.

Foggy breathes in deeply, in and out, and then he says gently, "I'm sorry that this has become something you have to endure," and he's talking to both of them, "And I promise I won't hurt you any more than will make them just go away."

Bee Elle nods, and Matt murmurs, "Thank you, Foggy," even if he's not sure why Foggy thinks Summer and Winter are about to hurt them.

\--

Foggy, after that exhausting, terrifying piece of information, looks up the names and places of therapists the student insurance covers, calls Aunt Imelda to arrange to meet her, emails Anna a quick thank-you and a small reassurance that he's going to see a therapist, and goes the fuck to bed.

When he wakes up later that night, however, he realizes one thing through the haze of annoyance that his stupid sleep disorder is acting up again:

Matt isn't in bed.

Foggy wonders if he's just going to get a glass of water or studying in the kitchen, or something, but the quieter Foggy gets, listening, the more he doesn't hear anyone moving around.

Uh-oh.

He gets up, grabs the baseball bat from under his bed that Dad gave him when he first went to college, and walks slowly down the hallway.

He sees Bee Elle sleeping on the couch and Matt in the faint light from the microwave, kneeling on the floor, and he breathes a sigh of relief that he's not dead or abducted or something, and then he realizes that Matt's muttering something to himself, and his hands are resting on something that looks, blurrily, like nails.

"The place a slave belongs is on their knees and not their feet..."

Oh, fuck.

\--

Matt becomes only very vaguely aware of a hand on his shoulder once it's shoving him _hard_ , and then there's a knuckle across his sternum and he floats, dizzy from the endorphins, to the present day.

His mouth is still murmuring the mantra he'd picked to remind himself to stop thinking inappropriate thoughts, but then he can hear Foggy whispering urgently, "Matt, shit, Matt, are you okay, Matt, say something--"

That's an order, but his mind is flooded with the focus, heavy with the pain in his knees and hands, and he stops chanting the phrase and licks his lips. It takes him a second, and then he says, "Yes, Foggy?"

Foggy says, hands now patting over Matt's arms like he's checking for broken bones, "Fuck, Matt, that--are those nails? Shit, shit, shit."

Matt blinks. "No, Foggy," he mumbles, words far away, all words except for what he's been saying softly and near-silently for the past--has it been two hours? _The place a slave belongs is on their knees and not their feet_ , and then he can hear it as if it's him hissing it in his own ear, the aspiration vivid.

"Matt," Foggy says, and sits down on the floor, "Matt, shit, come here, get--fuck, let me see your hands," and that's a direct order, so Matt gets off the bobby pins and crawls over a foot into his owner's lap as directed, face-up so his master can see his face, hand held up obediently.

"Fuck," Foggy says, "Fuck--okay, no blood," and his hands are unpleasantly cold compared to the burning in Matt's palms from the pressure.

Matt's head lolls where he's put it on Foggy's thigh. It feels good, the touch, to be clutched as a doll is supposed to be.

"Matt," Foggy says. "Fuck, fuck, come with--okay, let's get off this hard floor," and Matt stands up slowly as Foggy does, knees creaking like a door opening, like Mistress Sharon walking into the room where she kept her pretty pretty pet and pretty pretty Matt, and the next thing he's aware of Foggy has gently sort of put him on his bed, sitting up against the pillows, and is frantically typing.

Matt closes his eyes and breathes in and out. He's not sure of what's going on, but that's fine. The endorphins, the oxytocin from the touch, it all makes him feel like blood soaking through sheets, butter melting in a hot pan, slippery and evaporating and barely there. More words drift away, lost and abandoned, like the screaming, struggling slaves dragged into the medical centers he's walked past all his life.

"Shit," his owner mutters, and then he comes and sits down next to Matt, and asks him, heart thudding with fear, "Matt, okay, do you know where you are?"

It's hard to think. "Where my owner wants me to be," Matt murmurs, because that's all he can hold in his hands. Everything else is like trying to catch a soap bar in a bath.

"Fuck. Do you know who _I_ am?"

"My owner," and Matt tries to search for the correct address, and tries, "Master?"

His owner sucks in sharply. "Okay, Matt, um, let me see. Fuck," and there's more typing. Then: "Okay, can you name five--no, fuck, you're blind, that's unhelpful, fucking shit--can you tell me four things you can hear?"

Matt thinks. Obey, obey, obey. "I can hear my owner's heartbeat," he says, like talking around marbles, "I can hear another slave's heartbeat in the other room, I can hear my owner's computer's fan, I can hear an alley cat yowling outside," and he can't remember the correct address so he hangs his head. _Such_ a bad slave. All he wants is to be good. All he was trying to do on the floor was remember how to be good.

"Fuck," his owner says, and then, "Okay, then, um, three things you can touch."

Matt's hand reaches out and rubs the bedspread. It's a cheap-ish t-shirt cotton. "The sheets," he says, and thinks harder. "My collar on my neck," and it's a very nice collar too, "Thank you for my collar," and he wishes he could remember the correct address.

Then that's still only two things, so Matt's foot twitches and he says, still slurring against his will, "The air against my foot."

"Okay, uh, good job?" his owner says, still afraid, but Matt smiles and throws his head back, arching his back from the praise. Is his owner going to use him soon?

"And, okay, two things you can smell," his owner prompts.

Matt's getting better at this game. "My owner's shampoo," he says, and then wonderingly, "The books on the other side of the room."

"What do books even smell like?" his owner mutters absently, still scared.

Matt has to answer. "Like paper and ink and binding-glue," he says, and his whole body feels not real, not there. He thinks vaguely that he should be very, very scared right now because he doesn't know which owner he's with, can't recall it even a bit, but the self-administered punishment has scrambled his brains completely.

"Oh, Matt," his owner says, hurt and concerned and--guilty? Regretful? Does he regret buying Matt? Matt has to fix that. "Okay, final one, uh, one thing you can taste?"

Matt smiles. He knows how to do that. He leans forward and boldly sucks one finger into his mouth from his owner, and it's familiar.

His owner's other hand shoves his head gently away, quickly, and his owner stammers out, "Shit, fuck, stop that, no."

Matt stops that.

His owner wipes off his finger and runs a hand through his hair. "Okay, Matt, I just, um, wow you're really out of it, what were you even doing at this time of night?"

It's night? That explains the sleeping slave.

"I was helping myself be better," Matt says, rocking back and forth without thinking about it. "Remembering my place in the world," and that triggers something, because he says softly, sing-song, " _The place a slave belongs is on their knees--_ "

"Matt," his owner says, anguished, and Matt stops.

"I apologize," and there should be a title there, Matt knows it's a strange one with this owner but he can't remember it, "Please punish me--"

His owner makes a tiny hurt noise and Matt shuts up, _shut up you stupid slut you're going to make me sad_ , and then time seems to slide around again and the next thing he knows his owner is hugging him and saying, "Hey, Matt, stay with me, okay?"

"Yes," Matt whispers, trying to grab at the title, it's on the tip of his tongue.

"Okay, um, fuck, let's--you okay with cuddling? Would that help? Or should I just--leave you alone? I should probably leave you alone."

Matt doesn't want to be left alone. He hates it, hates being locked in a room and ignored for days, it's worse than anything else. Worse than being whipped. But he closes his eyes again--when had they opened?--and submits to his owner's will.

"Or, apparently from your face, no, so let's try--" and then his owner is wrapping something around him, a blanket, a reward-blanket, and Matt mumbles without thinking, "What's that a reward for?"

"Being alive, remember?" his owner coaxes, and then he moves so Matt is slumping next to him and then time skips and they've both got blankets on them and his owner is holding him tight, saying over and over again that it was okay and he'd never ever ever have sex with Matt ever again, never, that Matt was safe there, and Matt laughs to himself because owners always want him to appreciate their jokes and falls into a pool of drowsiness, dozing off.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from "Creature of Darkness" by Gloria Anzaldúa, here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/119376250453/creature-of-darkness


	58. the lord's gonna come for your first born son

When Matt rises to awareness in the morning, the first thing he feels is sunshine on his face, which is odd--Foggy's bed is close to the window, not his. Is he in--?  
  
The second thing he feels is the microfleece reward-blanket wrapped around him, and he snuggles into it. He can't remember why he was being rewarded, but then again, Foggy's quite serious about rewarding him for being alive--  
  
Oh, hell. Hellfire and _damnation_. Shit, shit, shit.  
  
Matt's entire face floods with heat and he suddenly wants to vomit from how ashamed he is. What the hell had he been thinking? Why had he made Foggy so upset? What was _wrong_ with him that basic self-maintenance made him react that way? How angry was Foggy now?  
  
Matt wants to throw off the blanket, get out of Foggy's bed, and go hide in the shower, under ice-cold spray like he deserves. He wants desperately to do something, anything at all, to make up for that pathetic display.  
  
But before he can manage to make himself do anything, Foggy comes back in, and says, "Oh, Matt, you're awake."  
  
Matt swallows, and can't think of where to start with his necessary apologies.   
  
"Anyway," Foggy says, carrying something, "Are you okay? How do you feel?"  
  
Matt says, making sure there's no waver in his voice, "I'm sorry, Foggy--"  
  
And then he freezes and realizes that Summer's downstairs, walking up, in heels, they buzzed the door, Bee Elle's ready to open it, and Winter's not far behind. Fuck. He doesn't--he doesn't want to be punished in front of her, he can't embarrass her--  
  
"Hey, Matt, no, it's okay," Foggy says, and hugs him. "Hey, it's okay, it's fine, I'm not angry," and that's a lie.  
  
Foggy sighs and then corrects himself, "I'm angry at your previous owners, not you. It's fine, Matt. If you want," and Matt could cry from those words, how completely bizarre, "I could wait until we've gotten Dracula and Renfield to go away and we could talk about it, okay?"  
  
That is just like Foggy, to be so generous. Matt swallows and murmurs, "Thank you, Foggy, thank you so much," and he leans forward to kiss Foggy's hand like he _should_ have done last night. God, what a fucking defective he was.  
  
He pulls himself together, slides out of Foggy's bed, and starts to get dressed--black almost-formal pants and a shirt that his organizing system says is dark red and the silk collar, and he's pulling the pants on when Summer opens the door and says sweetly, "Mr Nelson, we'll be in the kitchen when you and your slaves are ready to go!"  
  
"What the shit?" Foggy mutters as she closes the door and her heels click-click down the hallway. "Goddamnit. That's not right."  
  
Matt blinks, confused. Does Foggy not want anyone else to see his doll? Well, it would make some sense with how he'd acted at the store, having Bee Elle try things on in a changing room. He'd had Matt use a changing room, too, and now things are clicking into place.   
  
It's nice, in a way. If Matt and Bee Elle are both dolls, the two of them don't have to compete quite so much. Matt will just quickly ensure that they don't try to step over him for Foggy's approval, and then they can go back to helping one another out.  
  
Matt breathes in and out and is ready, except for the collar.  
  
He puts it near Foggy and shows him the back of the rabbit fur one he's still wearing.  
  
"Yeah, okay," Foggy says, and gets the rabbit fur one off and the new one on. Matt closes his eyes; he doesn't deserve the glide of the silk, but he can't imagine not wearing a more expensive collar to wherever it is his trainers are taking them for lunch.  
  
"Ready to go slay the dragon?" Foggy asks himself, and Matt has an epiphany. He knows how to make Foggy happy with him now.  
  
\--  
  
Foggy feels like he has when he's done babysitting before, which is a very weird feeling to have around adult human beings, but Matt seems even less independent than normal. Foggy thinks over what happened last night, and he doesn't let the curdling suspicions about the words _remembering my place in the world_ and _where my owner wants me to be_ rise up into his throat. He can help Matt out later when they're not in the presence of two very hungry lions.  
  
Bee Elle looks only very mildly freaked out. They're still way too shrunken, somehow, but they're wearing a pair of jeans and a shirt and a sweater and the snow-boots, and their hair is brushed. They asked him, wordlessly, to put on the braided leather collar earlier, and he had.  
  
Foggy himself is wearing semi-casual clothes, and he holds his breath as Matt walks out--  
  
And Matt has his _cane_ , and Foggy's face curls into a smile without thinking about it.  
  
The cane is a good sign. The cane is something Matt takes with him to classes and to Fogwell's sometimes now. The cane means something like _support_ or _I'm on your side_.  
  
Foggy grins. "Okay, where's this place?"  
  
"A ways out," Winter says, his face blank and the creepy Russian-Brooklyn dialect back. "It is not more than half an hour's drive, less."  
  
"Okay," Foggy says with a sigh, makes sure he has his phone and Bee Elle their tablet, and they all go.  
  
\--  
  
The first sign of trouble is when they get to the restaurant.  
  
Its sign is in curved, calligraphic font, and proclaims it to be _Noah's Arc_ , and the sign out front declares it has 'the most slave-friendly seating in all of Manhattan'.  
  
Foggy immediately wants to get the fuck out of there.  
  
Matt stands a half-step behind him, face serene, and Bee Elle looks nervous but watches Matt for cues.   
  
Winter goes to the door, walking in a way that makes the entire crowd of people waiting in the front move. Foggy stares at it. It's like seeing someone march up to assassinate the President or Captain America or something.  
  
Summer picks her way behind him in a little black dress with slits up both thighs and collarbones exposed, a red leather collar, and high, clicking black heels. Foggy notices a flash of red on the underside. She somehow makes it look like a confident strut.  
  
Foggy follows them, feeling rather like a bull in a lab full of smallpox petri dishes. They get to the front, and Summer chirps out that they have a reservation.  
  
The hostess's eyes slide over the three people with collars on as she leads them to the booth.  
  
Foggy abruptly realizes as they get there that he didn't actually know what slave-owner restaurant booths were like, because it takes him a minute to comprehend what he's seeing.  
  
There's a door--a sliding little door--and a booth, and past the booth are three large, flat pillows with padding that are clearly for kneeling. There's also a little alcove near the little sliding door for two people to put extra plates on, and pegs for a leash to be hung up on.  
  
Foggy stares at it and then he takes a deep breath and reminds himself to just get through this and then it'll be fucking _over_.   
  
Summer slides smoothly into place on one of the pillows, and she says sweetly to Matt and Bee Elle, "You are supposed to sit on the pads."  
  
Matt waits and turns his face to Foggy.  
  
Oh. That's--Foggy realizes that he's almost ostentatiously pointing out that she doesn't have the right to give him orders anymore.  
  
Well, goddamn. Foggy clears his throat and says, "Let's get this over with," and Matt nods and murmurs, "Yes, Foggy," and slides into place on a different pillow, and they follow him.  
  
Foggy sits down on the side with Matt and Winter sits on the other side. He takes off his jacket and puts his elbows on the table. Foggy stares. This time, his hair's just in a ponytail, but it's distractingly weird just _how_ much he looks like Bucky Barnes. Foggy's reminded of his American History textbooks, down to the last detail.  
  
Also, he hasn't realized just how utterly _built_ Winter is before. Even the metal arm--which almost _glows_ , it looks like something out of a movie with clones and cyborg armies--has defined, large muscles. His pecs are outlined by the shirt he's wearing, a Falcon one today emblazoned with the words _liberty and justice for **all**_ in gold above the silhouette of the wings, clear against the white background.  
  
He looks very, very dangerous.  
  
But then Foggy glances at Matt and Bee Elle, who look alternately like a statue and like a very scared dog, and he resolves to not let his fear win. Fuck this fucking asshole sitting in front of him.   
  
Foggy could be dangerous too. Well, legally speaking.  
  
The waitress comes over and asks them if they want anything, and hands them dessert menus.  
  
Foggy looks at the menu.   
  
"Hey, Matt, any preferences?" he asks idly.  
  
Winter's gaze goes _sharp_ and cold. Foggy doesn't let himself react to it.   
  
Matt murmurs, swaying slightly to Foggy's side, "Are there any good salads, Foggy?"  
  
Foggy looks. "This one is Romaine lettuce, apples, cranberries, crumbled goat's cheese, strawberries, walnuts, almonds, dried plums, chicken, bacon bits and a Balsamic dressing," he reads off. "That sound good?"  
  
"Delectable, Foggy," Matt says, voice soft and submissive and--oh.   
  
There's something fragile in his tone, something precious about it. Foggy's not exactly sure what's going on.  
  
He looks through the rest of it for something for Bee Elle, and asks them, "Uh, French onion soup without croutons sound good to you?"  
  
They look at Foggy with a distinct 'how are you for fucking real' gaze, but then their fingers, quavering, type out, "Thank you, Foggy."  
  
Alright then.   
  
The waitress comes back, knocking on the door, Foggy orders the food for the two of them first and then a hoity-toity ham and cheese for him, and then realizes he didn't ask them about drinks, and gets a polite request of water for Bee Elle and apple soda from Matt, and orders that too, and a watermelon lemonade from him. If this sociopath Winter is actually paying for this, he might as well get good food out of it.  
  
Winter looks at him the way cats look at mice as he orders two sushi dishes and a bottle of wine, which annoys Foggy. For fuck's sake, it's not even past noon.  
  
But he says nothing. The entire booth utterly silent as the grave until the food comes.  
  
Foggy then realizes that the alcove and the kneeling pads are set up so that it is physically impossible for a slave to eat in any way besides being handfed.  
  
Fuck that.   
  
The soup came in a little pouring jug, like milk for fancy tea ceremonies, so he passes it to Bee Elle, who drinks it, and then he stops. He really, really doesn't want to participate in this whole degrading charade, but then Matt leans his head on Foggy's thigh.  
  
Foggy freezes. "You okay?" he asks Matt.  
  
Matt nods.  
  
Then he get the message: _it's fine, I'm fine with this_.  
  
Foggy swallows. But Matt is probably hungry, so he gathers his courage, spears a good bite, and puts the fork near Matt's mouth.  
  
Matt's lips open.  
  
Foggy, against every single instinct screaming at him that this is beyond fucked up, puts the fork in, and Matt's mouth closes and scrapes the fork clean.  
  
Shit.  
  
Foggy repeats this, feeling more and more like someone disarming a bomb, until he realizes that Matt's salad is eaten and Matt's eyes are shut. He looks completely trusting.  
  
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.  
  
That's when Winter clears his throat and feeds Summer the last piece of the sushi roll he got for her, and says, "Let's talk now, man-to-man, as the people in this room."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Delta Rae's "Bottom of the River", which can be listened to here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bimam2j2gEg and lyrics read here: https://play.google.com/music/preview/Tzwgfkvvfk4auvv2o2ctxaxexoq?lyrics=1&utm_source=google&utm_medium=search&utm_campaign=lyrics&pcampaignid=kp-lyrics&u=0#


	59. some people haven’t learned that human beings aren’t things to be broken

Foggy feels incandescent with rage, like a forest fire, and he opens his mouth--  
  
And Matt's head presses harder into his thigh, and Foggy remembers what Matt said.  
  
_\--a lot of the more--cutting--things she'll say are just things to strengthen your composure, your patience, get you to take a firmer hold of your temper--_  
  
And Foggy knows what's going on.  
  
This isn't a test of Bee Elle. This is a test of _him_.  
  
This man sitting in front of him has absolutely no right, none at all, but Foggy breathes in and out and doesn't scream or hit him. Instead he says, calmly, channeling the Ralph Fiennes movies, the lawyer Alexander Farragut who never, never loses his temper, "It's very interesting that you think there's only two, as opposed to five, people in here."  
  
He wishes Summer would fuck off and maybe get eaten by a bear, but she's still a person too.  
  
Winter smiles, and it's huge and adorable and fucking scary. "Oh," he says softly, "I was once so naive. So idealistic, and young, and trusting. I was one of the true believers, you know. I really thought that he would make it all better, that it would all be worth it when the war was over."  
  
Foggy stares him down.  
  
He sighs and leans back, putting down his arms. "I loved him like a child loves their parents, like a lover loves their salt-rose and topaz."  
  
"Who?" Foggy asks despite himself.  
  
"Stevie," and there's so much longing in that word. "And Stalin, too, later, but primarily Steve. He said that slavery was wrong, that they were people too, and like a soldier trusts their general I _believed_ him."  
  
Foggy sees tears in the edges of Winter's eyes, and there's something so much more alarming now that he's showing actual emotion, faked or not.  
  
"And then I fell, and I landed on my arm, and when I came to and realized who I was, I understood the truth. I knew what a slave really is. I was one."  
  
Foggy, despite himself, is gaping at him. That's--people who are ex-slaves _never_ talk about it, it's, it's worse than cancer, you don't _mention_ things like that--  
  
And it has to be true, too, because nobody would ever lie about that. It was like lying about being a trans woman or something. Nobody did that. Not in person.  
  
"And yet, I wasn't. Not inherently. Not in the existential sense. Not like these three splendid animate objects here," and his metal arm gestures to them, plates clinking, motors whirring.  
  
"So you see, Foggy Nelson, we must talk, man-to-man, person-to-person. We must understand each other, because otherwise I cannot in good conscience let you keep these treasures."  
  
Foggy's brain snaps from confused shock--who was Steve?--back to anger. He's here to protect them. That's what he's going to do.  
  
Foggy glares at him and says, voice icy like Rosalind's when she's in court, "No."  
  
"No what?"  
  
"No, you can't take them. No, I won't let you hurt them."  
  
A flicker of something passes over Winter's face.  
  
"You aren't even curious about who my Steve was? Or who I truly am?"  
  
Foggy doesn't roll his eyes at the distracting tactic through sheer force of will. "No, I won't let you hurt them."  
  
Winter smiles and it's horrible, like a Chelsea grin. "You haven't even heard my proposal."  
  
"The answer is no."  
  
"I'm offering to buy one or both of them off of you and throw in $10,000 dollars for each of them."  
  
"No."  
  
"I'll pay double what they're worth."  
  
"No."  
  
"That's--Matt was last sold for seven and a half million dollars, and any reasonable person would tack on another 50,000 at _least_ for the beginnings of law school. And the other one--we paid only 40,000 total! The other one would be priced at probably a half a million. You're turning down over sixteen million dollars?"  
  
"I'm not going to let you hurt them. Either of them."  
  
Winter drew back sharply and sipped at his drink. Then he said, slowly, "But you care about money. Sixteen million dollars could help every Nelson on this planet for decades."  
  
It could. And a part of Foggy wants it, wants it like he wants nothing else.  
  
But another part of Foggy still wants to give Matt the entire world. And another part wants so desperately to make up for those three times Foggy raped him like all those other torturers.  
  
"The answer is no."  
  
Winter stared at coldly. "Throw in another five million for having such a spine."  
  
Foggy doesn't budge. "No."  
  
"You can't be serious. You're that selfish?"  
  
"I'm doing the right thing," and he can't not do it, can't do anything else, "Not the easy thing."  
  
Winter stares. He drinks the rest of his glass. He says, cool and collected, "Who do you think you are to presume you deserve these nice things?"  
  
"Someone better than you."  
  
Winter glares at him, and then says something to Matt in Russian, sounding commanding and soft, a blanket over granite.  
  
Matt says quietly, "My owner, Foggy Nelson, prefers that I follow only  _his_ orders."  
  
Foggy loves Matt so, so much. He owes it to him to never let anyone else hurt him, not ever again. Not himself, not Summer, not this shining example of humanity gone horribly wrong.  
  
"I think we're done here," Foggy says. "Test is over. How'd I do?"  
  
Winter stares and him and laughs. "Fine. Contract expires, then. You get to keep the broken thing she pulled from the wreckage. But don't come crying to me when life teaches you how the world really works."  
  
Foggy arches an eyebrow, and stands up. Matt and Bee Elle are instantly on their feet, and they follow him out into the outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from an unnamed poem by fromonesurvivortoanother, found here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/61437003225/fromonesurvivortoanother-sometimes-the-only-way
> 
> Full text of the poem:   
> "sometimes   
> the only way to survive in this world   
> is to break something. 
> 
> but some people haven’t learned   
> that human beings aren’t things  
> to be broken."


	60. I can write 17,000 poems about stupid shit like this, but I can’t write even one that will make you understand

Getting out of that fucking restaurant and getting home is goddamn near miraculous, and in the cab, Bee Elle types out, “Foggy, can I hug Matt sometimes?”

Foggy blinks. “Your friendship is not my business, it's fine, just, I dunno, don't hurt each other.”

They nod and look back out the window, and their hand wanders over and squeezes Matt's, hard.

–

Matt's dreading getting home. His heart is fast and loud in his ears, drowning out his mental screams, because he can't believe he _did_ any of that, he can't believe he talked back to Winter, he can't believe that Foggy fought him so hard, didn't sell him.

He breathes as slowly in and out as he can, thinking, trying to ignore the words Winter spoke.

_Tell your owner how much you want to come back to us. Make him understand. Tell him and you can, I know you hated it when we had to sell you, but if you just tell him the truth, we can make this right. We can make it all up to you._

But how could they?

And how could Matt make Foggy _understand_ anyway? Matt doesn't even know how to make _himself_ understand the veritable flood of every sensation associated with his trainers.

The _I'll do anything to make you happy_ , the strawberry taste edged with her nail polish, the silk holding him open and exposed in the air, the pounding heartbeat every time Matt slept in Winter's bed, the steam of the sauna when he'd been especially good, the swaying on his feet when he wasn't allowed to sleep for days, the lipstick against his forehead as Summer kissed him and told him he was so good, he was being so good for them and she was so proud, the Moscato and rare steak against his tongue as Winter rewarded him for every A in college, the laughter as he made a pun in French, the way she insisted that he was smart and capable and could learn new things all the time, the long car drives with the sounds of the road and Winter's favorite Taylor Swift songs, the cold when Summer stopped hugging him because the make-up artists had to get him ready for the auction, the cold of Winter's arm, teaching him to stop struggling when he was choked, the comforting sounds of them sleeping or walking around or doing things while Matt had been ordered to hold the stress position, to kneel and empty his pretty little head. The way they smelled.

But even that doesn't explain it. He can't explain it. Foggy doesn't even understand that Matt's not a person; how could he possibly ever understand how Matt both wants to go back and is so glad Foggy won't let him go back?

Matt makes himself not curl up, not hide from his owner, and the drive continues.

–

“So,” Foggy says, sitting down on his bed. “What—do you want to talk about what that was, last night?”

“I'm so sorry I made you upset,” Matt murmurs, and sinks to his knees without even deciding to, “I apologize, Foggy, for my inappropriate—“

“Matt,” Foggy cuts in. “It's fine. I'm not—I just want to know what happened so I can make sure you don't have a flashback again.”

Matt blinks. That wasn't a flashback. People with PTSD or things like that have flashbacks. But he's not sure how to explain that to Foggy without being more insolent.

Foggy says, deliberately calm, “Okay, so you said that you were, uh, reminding yourself of your place in the world? Or something like that? I don't really know what that means.”

Matt's face flames. “I—“ he swallows. “I've noticed recently, Foggy, that I've been—I haven't been doing my best for you, and I need to, and I needed to be reminded to not get above my station in life, and so I decided to remind myself of that, and I apologize for causing you so much distress and inconvenience, Foggy, please punish—“

Foggy clears his throat. Matt goes silent. Maybe he won't be allowed to speak for a while, not after how his words had _scared_ Foggy last night. He'll deserve it. Dolls especially are not supposed to make an owner unhappy. He feels a roiling shame in his stomach at how pathetic he'd, like he's swallowed a live octopus.

“Matt,” Foggy says slowly. “Can I ask what you were actually doing? What the process is? I don't think I understand.”

Matt takes a deep breath. “The process is simple,” he explains. “I refined it within the first month of using it. I started when one of my owners almost never spoke to me outside of using me, and certainly didn't administer any punishments. I realized that he wished for me to maintain myself that way, and I devised it quite simply. I—in the process, the slave kneels on a hard, cold surface, naked—but I thought that if I were to be naked, I thought that you didn't want anyone seeing me naked—and there's things under the slave's hands that hurt to lean on, but not enough to cause blood, unless the owner wishes for it.

“And then the slave says things that are true—mantras—until the pain becomes sufficient to release a flood of endorphins from the brain, and thus the punishment of the self becomes its own reward, reinforcing whatever lesson needs to be retaught. The slave can then enjoy the feelings of pleasure and come to understand the world and the lesson better, and the owner can be satisfied that their machine is self-repairing. Then the punishment ends with rewards and clarity.”

Foggy is absolutely silent, his heart like a rolling clap of thunder. Then he asks, like he's angry already at the answer, “How many times have you done that with—since I got you?”

Matt shivers in fear, and in relief. Whatever happens next, he'll actually deserve, and the world will make sense. He almost hates how he got _rewarded_ at lunch, and for what? For just for being a greedy slave who asked to be fed from their owner's fork despite not earning one bite?

(He had meant it to show Foggy he was on his side, he knew who his owner now was, Foggy thought he and Summer were enemies and Matt needed to show him that Matt was on his team, would fight for him, but still. But still.)

“Only twice, Foggy,” he murmurs. “Once, after I asked you during sex to not take off my collar, and once a few days before I asked you to help with Bee Elle, after I had gotten an A- on that paper.”

Foggy's mouth opens and closes. “Shit, Matt,” he says. “That sounds—you're hurting yourself until you're so out of it you don't even know where you are or who I am or anything? Over—over things like that—shit, Matt, oh god,” and he lurches forward and hugs Matt tightly.

Matt doesn't move. He can't explain to Foggy how it's not damaging to him, it doesn't hurt him, it feels so _good_ when the body switches from pain to pleasure—

Oh. Foggy must mean his knees and his palms getting hurt. And of course, him forgetting who his owner was.

“I—shit, okay, I don't like ordering you to do things, but, fuck, I just—that can't be healthy, Matt. That can't be good for you. Please don't hurt yourself for me, okay? Please don't.”

Foggy shouldn't be begging him. Matt licks his lips and says, “Yes, Foggy,” because won't disobey. Next time he needs to be taught a lesson, he'll do it some other way. Maybe a cold shower, or perhaps he could not eat, and the mantras. Foggy hadn't forbid them.

Foggy went on, “And, and I'm not angry at _you_ , okay? If you ever do have like a more 'traditional', I guess, flashback, or a panic attack like I thought that was, or you're just...I don't know, out of it for any reason, I'm not going to get pissed at you for that. And even if I do get pissed at you, I'm never going to hit you or hurt you, got it? At all. Ever.”

“Yes, Foggy,” Matt says into the silence.

“And Matt? I know you're always doing your best. Don't be so harsh on yourself. You put your best into literally everything.”

“Thank you, Foggy,” Matt says, and he can't quite follow the orders yet, but it's a massive relief to know that he's still Foggy's doll, he's not supplanted, he's capable of being good yet.

Foggy hugs him and Matt pushes his fear into his windpipe and breathes as much as it out as it takes for Foggy to be satisfied with the touching. This is fine. This is normal. Dolls are supposed to be cuddled. This is appropriate. He's Foggy's doll. It's only right that Foggy touches him.

He will do better in the future. He will. He can't deal with the thought of Foggy selling him.

He can't deal with the thought of Foggy selling him.

Oh, shit, he's gone and gotten himself _attached_ to his owner.

Matt is _fucked_.

–

They go back to studying with a plan in their head, trying not to worry too much about what they're doing or why.

But just as they're getting hungry, and wondering if they should ask Foggy if they can have another can of the supplement—it feels fine and fills them up—Foggy and Matt both come into the room.

“Hey,” Foggy says, forced cheer in his voice. “So we have kind of a thing where on Sunday nights we watch a movie or an episode of a non-episodic series, which sounds completely stupid now that I say it out loud, but basically, we do that thing while we eat leftovers because I'm not gonna overwork Matt, and tonight I was wondering, do you wanna pick it?”

They freeze. But so far this owner has been sincere. If he's building up to some spectacular betrayal, it probably won't be for some weeks anyway.

They type, tentatively, and it's weird as hell to talk out loud, “Could I have a can of the supplement, then, Foggy, please?”

Foggy says, “I was serious when I said eat whatever whenever. It's all good,” and he gets himself pizza.

Matt does too.

They're not sure what to say, but they get it, and a glass of water, slowly, prepared to be hit at any moment, but then everyone ends up in the living room, Matt stiff but slowly uncoiling, Foggy sitting on the _floor_ with Matt, and they sit on the floor too, Matt buffering them.

They'll apologize to him later, but they don't want to touch their owner. Not ever.

Foggy puts his laptop up on a box and sets up Netflix and says, “So go ahead, choose anything.”

They move slowly, sure it's a test, but then something grabs their eye.

_Ancient Aliens_? What could that possibly be about? It looks both stupid and hilarious.

They glance at Foggy, and he cheers and says, “Oh, man, that show is so fucking stupid, it's amazing, we can yell at it the whole time,” and with that they pick an episode titled “Aliens and Dinosaurs”.

They do end up yelling at it, careful to not turn up the volume too hard, but since Foggy and Matt are making sarcastic rebuttals to all the idiotic theories, it's fine. It's actually kind of fun, and every time Matt or them start to talk, Foggy stops speaking and doesn't interrupt them. It's weird, but enjoyable.

It takes them halfway through to spit out the water they're laughing so hard, and Matt finally relaxes a little when Foggy doesn't punish them for making a mess, and it's all good. They can live there, they think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from a poem by Catalina Ferro, "Panties", here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/138323686153/imnotevilimjustwrittenthatway-i-can-write


	61. I am very  familiar with the problems because the problems turn out to be me

On Monday, Matt and Bee Elle have a chance to be properly alone together.  
  
[Library?] he taps on their arm as they walk out of class.  
  
They press their shoulder against his and the two of them walk to the little window alcove that's familiar in fond silence.  
  
And there, Matt pins them to the wall.  
  
Before they can get frightened or struggle, he talks very quietly but very seriously.   
  
"I'm not going to hurt you, and I don't want to compete with you, but you also have to understand that now that we are in the same household, I can't just brush off anything you do as not my business."  
  
They tap out against his hand, [Fine.]  
  
"I mean it. I want us to be a team, I'd rather work with you than against you and as far as I can tell Foggy wants two dolls, but if it comes to war you will lose and you will lose _hard_ , got it?"  
  
[You think you can take me?]  
  
He bares his teeth. He knows how to fight dirty. "You're scared of Summer, and she shaped you far out of your original personality in three days. She trained _me_ and I've helped train baby slaves, too, once upon a time. You think I can't do even more to you if you give me a reason?"  
  
They struggle but Matt's much, much stronger than them. They don't have any combat training at all.  
  
Then they stop and go flat against the wall. [You want to fight me? I'll go to Foggy.]  
  
"And I'll convince him to keep me instead. I'm the one of us that he actually _touches_. And no, I don't want to fight you, but I'm making sure that you understand if you start anything you will regret it."  
  
[What do you actually want, asshole?]  
  
"I want us to be happy and safe and good dolls for our owner. I want us to work together and make both of our positions secure."  
  
[You have to be this much of a dick about it?]  
  
"I have to make sure you understand that I take orders from my owner and any slave that's worth more than me, and you're not."  
  
[Fuck you.]  
  
"That's up to Foggy."  
  
There's an awkward, cool silence, and then they loudly sigh. [Get off of me. I'm willing to be good for him too. Dude seems pretty nice.]  
  
Matt deliberately keeps them pinned for a few more moments and then lets them go, just to make his point.   
  
"I'm not jeopardizing this placement," Matt says. "I can help you be good. I've been in households where I had to fight everyone else, and I've been in placements where we worked together. And both ways I win. I'd rather just focus my energy on more enjoyable things."  
  
Their face does something and they breathe out deliberately. [I always knew you were an asshole.]  
  
"Thank you dearly," he snipes.  
  
Then they sit down and start to study, and Matt joins them.  
  
When it's time for lunch, they communicate that all is well and the compromise accepted very simply: they hand him an apple, and he squeezes their hand.   
  
Good. He won't have to systematically destroy them.  
  
\--  
  
Things go very well for Foggy for the next few days.  
  
On Thursday, however, shit hits the fan twice.  
  
One, he has a meeting with his Aunt Imelda, a lunch.   
  
Two, Marci Stahl asks to come over to his apartment and 'see the doll collection'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also taken from June Jordan's "Poem About My Rights".


	62. fuck your c'est la vie

Aunt Imelda insists on both Foggy coming alone and not telling him exactly where they're going. Each of these things would normally result in Foggy not going--he's an open-arm kind of person, not an idiot--but he called Anna to check to see if that was normal for her, and Anna had explained that she was...eccentric.  
  
This appears to have been an underestimation as she pulls up in what's clearly a Groucho Marx face mask, a beanie over her hair, and heavily layered clothes with worn-out fingerless gloves.  
  
"Get in," she hisses, and Foggy does.  
  
His phone chimes with the text from Matt, saying, _we're at home safe_ , and Foggy sags with relief. He had contemplated walking them back, but Matt had very very gently offered up that he did have bodyguard training and wouldn't let anything hurt either of them--well, he'd phrased it as 'damage your property, Foggy'--Foggy had shut up.  
  
His Aunt Imelda jumps about four feet in the air and snarls, "PHONE OFF AND BATTERY OUT, NOW!"  
  
Her tone is so authoritative that Foggy instantly does it, heart pounding. Jesus, she's jumpy.  
  
She drives around aimlessly in circles for about ten minutes. Every time Foggy tries to say something, she hushes him, and then he pulls up and gets drive-through Chik-fil-a for them and immediately drives into a parking lot behind a sleazy sex shop.  
  
"Uh," Foggy says, startled by the signs saying 'RENT A SLUT FOR YOUR SPECIAL OCCASIONS' and the sheer gritty grossness of the pavement. "Could we go somewhere else--?"  
  
"No," she snaps, and then starts to eat. "Now, your mother said that you want to help slaves?"  
  
"Objection, leading the witness," Foggy jokes weakly.  
  
She doesn't laugh.  
  
"Yes," he says with a slump. "Anna--Mom--she said you were, uh, politically active?"  
  
Aunt Imelda snorts. "It's a nice euphemism. Eat your damn food, you never know where it's coming from next."  
  
Foggy has the feeling he gets sometimes when Matt says something horrifically fucked-up without realizing that it's fucked-up, like _I needed to be reminded to not get above my station in life_ or tossing out a casual little _see, Foggy feeds us even when we don't deserve food_ he overheard one morning.  
  
But Aunt Imelda doesn't appear to need him to react the same way, so Foggy just eats.  
  
"In prison, I learned a lot," she says. "I learned how to sew, for one thing. How to get up before dawn and do push-ups until I wanted to die. I learned how our fucked-up legal system _really_ works. I learned how to live without conditioner. I learned how to make a knife out of anything. I learned how desperate people get. One of my cellmates stabbed herself to death with a shiv made from Jolly Ranchers. Do you know why?"  
  
Foggy does not want to know why. He shakes his head.  
  
"Because her sentence got changed. She was deemed fit for enslavement instead of her life sentence. Now you know how I got into my, uh, _political activism_?"  
  
Foggy shakes his head again, trying to taste the fried chicken in the sandwich, the pickles.  
  
"I got into it because once it was declared a mistrial--make no mistake, I did in fact stab that rapist to death and I'd do it all over again--I knew that I had to help people out however I could. And I can't be a lawyer. I'd just start shooting up the whole goddamn courtroom. I know my limits."  
  
Foggy nods. That makes sense.  
  
"Now, you can be a lawyer, help people not get enslaved in the first place. But I'm guessing you're not around slaves all that often?"  
  
Foggy clears his throat. "Uh, Rosalind gave me one and then shit happened and I got a second one," he says, wincing at the phrasing.  
  
She stares at him, disapproving, flat. "You have two slaves."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And you want to free them, I'm guessing?"  
  
Foggy sighs. "More than anything."  
  
She rolls her eyes. "Give me their classes."  
  
Foggy tries to remember, and says slowly, "Uh--Matt's M-class, I think, and Bee's K-class, though I'm not sure what those stand for?"  
  
"M just means can't be freed," Aunt Imelda says, voice gruff. "And K is for Kindergarten."  
  
"What?"  
  
"K means enslaved via guardian surrender of them before the age of five."  
  
Foggy hears nothing but blood rushing in his ears for a minute, and then he manages to say, horrified, "How the fuck is that legal? How could anyone do that to anyone?"  
  
"Because we live in the kind of world where as long as they don't have to _see_ it, it doesn't really exist. Because oh, it could never happen to me. It only happens to those bad people over there who aren't really people and it's not really so bad anyway and they deserve it and so on and so on. It's the same reasoning behind every other evil, shitty system. Why the hell do you think anyone does anything awful? Because as long as it's not really that bad, not really happening to real people, it's not real."  
  
Foggy stares at her. She looks like one of those people in superhero movies who goes on to beat up criminals and save the day.  
  
But then she sighs. "Class-M, we don't do anything for."  
  
Foggy recoiled. "What?"  
  
"We can't do anything for them. We can't free them, not at all, not ever. We can't save them. We have triage work to do."  
  
"But--"  
  
"Even if we could free them, they'd be by far the hardest to rehab. It's bad enough with all the others. We don't have the resources to spend on people who we can't help."  
  
Foggy feels low and angry in his gut. His bones are made of burning August asphalt. "Even if you can't free someone, that doesn't mean you can't do your damndest to give them the best life possible."  
  
She sighs. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to continually rehab someone when it's not even a sane or safe idea to do in the first place? For those poor bastards, the only thing we can do at all is leave them alone.  
  
"Now, the class-K is harder to free, because you either have to do the standard 'pay double their worth to the government' or you have to file a petition to argue it in front of a panel of ten government officials, and those ten are always assholes. And even in terms of rehab, there's not a whole lot of point in freeing class-Ks, because they haven't known any other life. Enough of them resort to surrendering themselves or committing a crime to end up back in collars that we can't gamble with our resources like that. It's not worth--"  
  
"That's _bullshit_!"  
  
A silence fell over the car.  
  
"That's fucking bullshit," Foggy snapped. "I don't care how you do things. If I can help someone, I will, and all I've heard is that I _can_ help Matt and Bee, it'll just be hard."  
  
"It'll be a lifetime of hard, futile work," Aunt Imelda said, arching both eyebrows, eyes chilly. "Maybe the class-K can learn to function again. But the class-M will always need help."  
  
"Some people always need help. That doesn't mean you should never give them any," Foggy snarled. "That's actually the opposite of what you should be doing. I know me and Candace and Anna only really Jewish in name and Anna's not my biological mother, but isn't there a saying about how you can't abandon the work?"  
  
"The saying is that you can't take on all of it, either," Aunt Imelda pointed out. "And your mother is very culturally Jewish. It's complicated."  
  
Foggy sighed. "I'm not doing _all_ the work. But I won't just toss away Matt like--like a FUBAR TV or something. Fuck that."  
  
"It won't be easy, ever, getting the K-class freed," she warned him.  
  
"Oh no, how will I ever cope with the strain?" Foggy fired back, sarcastic. Then he added, less angry, "I _am_ going to go see a therapist over the break. I think it'll help."  
  
"Good," Aunt Imelda nodded. "Then I won't have to coerce you into never telling anyone of this conversation."  
  
"I won't," Foggy said. Then as she started to drive and he worked on the fries, "Uh, tell me about the petition."  
  
"Well," she said, "You file and usually six to eight weeks later you argue in front of ten panelists that the person should be freed. If eight agree, they get freed. If not, you file again in six months if you want."  
  
Foggy thought about it, and put it down on his calendar to do it right after finals were over. "Usually?"  
  
"They can declare the date anywhere from three days to nineteen weeks to argue," she explained. "Though they only choose three days in a blue moon. But sometimes they do it to fuck over the enslaved person."  
  
Foggy nodded. "Okay," he said. "Thanks for the help."  
  
She snorted. "You're way too damn attached," she said. "If you ever want to help on a decent scale, you're going to have to be more professional."  
  
_I'm in love with Matt, I'm already incapable of being professional_ , Foggy wanted to say, but refrained. He doubted she'd take it very well.  
  
They pulled up, Foggy got out and went to class. He turned his phone back on, and Matt had texted him that they were fine.  
  
He texted back a _thanks Matt and Bee_ and headed to Punjabi class.  
  
At the end, Marci Stahl came up. Foggy thought she was sort of interesting, a weird combination of ruthlessly intelligent and sometimes-stumbling rich girl who nevertheless was sort-of friends with him.  
  
"So hey, Foggy," she said as he got his things together. "I was wondering, could I come to your place sometime and you could show me your doll collection?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also comes from Kanye West's song "New Slaves".


	63. every morning I jump out of bed and step on a landmine. the landmine is me.

The first thing Foggy does is drop what's in his hand--his textbook--and have it promptly land on his foot. _Ow_.  
  
Then second thing Foggy does is ask, with the most what-the-fuck in his voice since, well, this whole thing about being 'gifted' Bee Elle, "What makes you think I have a doll collection?"  
  
"Your slaves," Marci prompts. "Your dolls, I'd love to meet them."  
  
There's an uncomfortable pause where Foggy tries to process those words, because he understands 'slaves' but is 100% not connecting them to 'dolls'.   
  
"What--dolls?" he says, trying to say _what the fuck is a doll_ and _why would you think they're dolls_ and _what is wrong with you that you think they're dolls not people_ at the same time.  
  
Marci rolls her eyes. "Yes, your dolls, can I meet them?"  
  
Foggy tries to focus on putting his things in his bag so he can escape this deeply uncomfortable conversation. He keeps having these.  
  
Something about his incredulous bafflement must show on his face, because Marci then says, "Wait--are you--do you not know the terminology?"  
  
Foggy doesn't say anything.  
  
Marci explains, "Oh, Foggy, that's understandable, if you've really never owned any slaved before then you might not know. Anyway, Matt and--I don't know the other one's name, the girl, they both seem very intelligent and well-kept, you treat them like dolls from what I can tell, can I meet them?"  
  
Foggy realizes he can't actually make her go away through the force of awkward, and he doesn't want to have to explain the stupidity of the gender binary (or out Bee, he remembers to never do that from college), so instead he engages. "What--how do I treat them 'like dolls'?"  
  
He has the horribly comedic mental image of carrying Matt around in his arms and clutching Bee Elle and him alternately, tucking them both into the crook of his elbow, dressing them up in outfits, Matt in bright smeared lipstick and heels...  
  
And the he flinches. What the goddamn shit is _wrong_ with his brain?!  
  
Marci rolls her eyes. Her mascara is very well-applied, Foggy thinks faintly.  
  
"You talk to them like they're dolls, you let them do things that aren't academic like dolls, they've never written a paper or anything for you or taken notes for you so they're definitely not a real study guide."  
  
"So I talk to them like they're people?" Foggy asks incredulously. He hadn't thought Marci was one of those assholes who came up to him and asked if they could 'rent out' Matt for a night. He'd flatly told each of them to go cut their dick and/or clit off or else become a better person.  
  
(Well, after the third person he'd started doing that, because each time he'd tried to point out that you couldn't rent a person the whole conversation ended up going so far downhill he almost committed assault, and if Foggy ended up in jail--or worse, enslaved, though for one instance of assault that was somewhat improbable--Matt and now Bee Elle as well would end up with someone horrible. Just snapping at them harshly enough that they went away and never came back solved the problem.)  
  
Marci sighed heavily. "All slaves are people, so the way that anyone treats them is like how people treat other people _by definition_. I mean, you're almost cooing over them every day. You're a mother hen."  
  
Foggy...hadn't thought about it like that. "What--"  
  
"You text them literally every twenty minutes they're not with you, and not to order them to not talk to people. They go to a class that you don't. You yelled at Amanda one day for ruffling Matt's hair. They sit in chairs when they eat, and half the time when you get a brownie at lunch you get them ones too. You ask their opinions and never interrupt them. You lose your shit anytime anyone asks to even borrow them for _actual_ studying. And Matt apparently said something hideously cruel to that guy with the weird hair, because every time anyone mentions slaves at all to him he bursts into tears, it's disgusting."  
  
Foggy couldn't help but smile at that. It sounded like poetic justice. He'd have to mention it to Matt.  
  
"But, Foggy, you probably don't know the vocabulary, but that's how people treat dolls--people that aren't shrinks, anyway. I don't know what they do with dolls. I don't wanna know. They're dolls. Can I meet them?"  
  
Foggy sighed. "Why are you asking me? They're _people_ , you could just talk to them."  
  
"Because Matt doesn't speak to _anyone_ who's not a professor or your other slave without you around, not that I've seen, maybe he does in class, the other one doesn't talk at all, and besides, that's just...Foggy, that's like asking me why I'd ask one of my sisters for permission before trying to go after one of their booty calls. It's downright weird. I'm just being polite. I get that you don't understand how to be polite about slaves, but this is that. This is that thing."  
  
Foggy closed his eyes and focused. "If Matt and Bee want to meet you, and I'll ask them, then we can all have a lunch sometime or something. But, Marci, I don't...I'm so tired of people being assholes to Matt. They don't even realize that they're doing it, they come up and ask me if they can rape him like they're asking if they can borrow a fucking pen. One of them told me she'd make sure her boyfriend used condoms, like that's what I object to, that they'd rape him *and* hand him back with the fucking clap. I can't deal with it any more."  
  
She frowned. "You know that as gross as psychologists are, there are ones with Wellness? You sound like you're drowning."  
  
"Yeah," Foggy sighed. His first therapist appointment with the first one on his list to try was scheduled for five days after the break began. He'd tried to get in earlier, but they'd been booked up.  
  
Marci stood up. "Well, don't let your talents go to waste. Your mother's a great attorney, she's helped many people, you can too."  
  
Foggy rolled his eyes and started walking. "She's helped many mobsters, sure."  
  
"And billionaires," Marci added. "But don't they _also_ deserve fair treatment under the law?"  
  
Foggy sighed, and began to point out that there was a difference between saying that even horrible people deserved good legal representation and saying that it was fine for someone to go after the most wealthy criminals so single-mindedly that they ended up being absurdly rich, but thought better of it. Marci knew that.  
  
"See you next time," he said, and she waved a hand, and he began to go home and tell Matt and Bee that he wanted to treat them like _people_ and not _dolls_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a quote by Rad Bradbury.


	64. must I rewrite my life, edit it down to a parable where everything turns out for the best?

Matt's studying when they all get back from classes and Foggy comes in.  
  
Matt's head jerks up because Foggy's heartbeat is strong and loud and fast, and his body tension sounds angry and upset, and Matt's torn between shutting his book and kneeling and pretending to not have noticed.   
  
But then Foggy comes over and Matt can feel his eyes on him, so he shuts the book and pushes the laptop away and moves to face Foggy. Sighted people always think you're not paying attention to them if you're not facing them.  
  
"Hey, so Matt," and Matt braces himself mentally, bends his knees, readies himself, "I've, uh, I just had a really interesting conversation with Marci, and I think there's been some misunderstanding? I want to clarify something."  
  
Matt focuses on keeping his new swooping terror off his face.   
  
"So she said you and, uh, Bee are--dolls?"  
  
Matt tilts his head.  
  
"Well, I want to clarify for both of you--Bee, you can come in and sit if you want--"   
  
And they're at the doorway, swallowing hard, heart thumping fast as a rabbit's, smelling of fear, and they come in and sit down on the floor, not Matt's bed.  
  
Matt breathes in and out carefully, trying to calculate how to respond to all possibilities. Will he sell one or both? Declare one of them the house-slave and the other the doll?   
  
"See, I don't want you two to be dolls," and oh god, oh god, Matt feels his entire body get ready to fight, to kneel, to beg, "I want you two to be free people."  
  
Matt's mouth forms the word _no_ but says nothing at all out loud.   
  
Bee's tablet voices something--Matt can't hear what it is over the rush of his own panic. He can't, he can't, he doesn't even remember all the things he had about the mask, he'll have to make a new one and oh god, is Foggy going to ignore him now, is he going to start being punished--  
  
Foggy's saying, "See, you can get as close as you can to being free--"  
  
And Matt bites his mouth shut and feels cold and overwhelmingly _angry_.  
  
How fucking _dare_ he do this to Matt? How dare he hand him this hideous fucking task, this order and yank away all the sweet safety and luxury and the chance to say a real opinion and act like he was _doing Matt a favor_?  
  
Matt grits his teeth and clenches his fists. Foggy abruptly stops talking about how great it'll be to be free--to have to _pretend_ to be free, fuck him and his fucking delusions, Matt thought he had gotten past them--and says, slowly, "Matt?"  
  
Matt breathes in and out and tries to grab hold of his temper, but what comes out isn't a snarl or a scream, it's a laugh.  
  
It's a harsh, mean, barking hyena-laugh, like he laughed at that puerile cretin Devyn, it's a laugh that pours out of him like a wax teacup melting.   
  
"Matt?" and now Foggy sounds worried. Does he want a doll or a fantasy fleshlight? What is wrong with him?  
  
Matt manages to stop laughing, and tries to apologize but his stomach is splitting, Foggy has gutted him and now his anger is sliding out like an organ onto the floor, "Do you want me to service your fantasies tonight or right now, sir?"  
  
Foggy flinches and says, like Matt's crazy or confused, "Matt--what--"  
  
Matt slides down onto his knees. "Should I think of England or Torts when you put your mouth on me again? Would you prefer I start liking mango and pineapple juice once more? Did you want me to kiss you back? At what point after you wrap me up in blankets and feed me soup should I suck your cock?"  
  
Foggy steps back. "Matt--I don't understand--"  
  
"I--" and Matt wants to cry at the gentleness, the horrible coddling mixed in with the cruelty, wants to throw things, wants to yank the collar off his neck, "You--it's not fair, you said that you liked the real me, you liked me when I took off the mask, you liked it when I said what I actually thought, you liked it when I communicated honestly, I don't want to put it back on, please don't make me have to lie to you again--"  
  
And then the anger is overwhelmed by the fear and Matt falls to his knees on the floor and focuses on not crying, not fucking this up even more.   
  
There's the sound of his wet near-hyperventilating, and then Foggy gets down and puts a hand on his shoulder and says, sounding more discombobulated than ever before, "Matt, I don't--I want you to be able to be the person you are--"  
  
"I'm _**not** a person_ ," Matt chokes out, anguished. He's finally discovered something worse than being whipped. This mind game is even more terrifying than any other because he's started _trusting_ Foggy, he's started to feel _safe_ like a worthless dumb pathetic broken slut--  
  
Foggy's silent. His body is angry and afraid and confused. Then Bee says, saving the day, "Explain what you mean like you're talking to me."  
  
Matt swallows but maybe if he says this just right, makes it his verbal piece de la resistance of this whole goddamn placement, he can rescue some of this.   
  
"The order to be who I am--to be honest and communicative--and the order to be a free person--collared just in name--are mutually exclusive. I can't be a free person in actually, I'm not a person, not inherently, not existentially, not genuinely, I can, I can pretend to be the free person you like better than me, Foggy, I can, I can obey orders, I can pretend they're me, but they're not, there isn't any free person hiding inside my skin and if I rip it off to show you them all I'll be is skinned, I can put on the mask and stitch it to my face but I'll still be bleeding, Foggy, I can't animate the metal over my cheek--"  
  
And then he stops, horrified, because Foggy's breath sounds like he'll start to cry in a second.  
  
" _Matt_ ," Foggy chokes out. "Matt--no--no, I don't want, don't hurt yourself, oh god, I just--I want you to be happy--"  
  
"I can pretend to be happy for you!"  
  
And Foggy starts crying at that, tears rolling down his cheeks, and Matt wants to vomit immediately. He never wants Foggy to cry.  
  
"I think there's a solution here," Bee says, and Matt wants to kill them and kiss them at the same time. "Matt, you're happy being his doll, right?"  
  
Matt nods. "I--it makes everything so much better, ever since I've been Foggy's doll everything has gotten better, I want it more than anything--"  
  
Bee nods. "And so, Foggy, if you want Matt to be happy, you don't have to do anything more than what you're doing."  
  
Foggy keeps crying a bit, but then says, breath stinking of snot, "I just--Matt, you're a _person_ , you're a person no matter what anyone's ever done to you or told you, god, I just," and Foggy tugs and Matt sits up and Foggy squeezes him tight.  
  
"Please let me stay your doll, Foggy," Matt begs. "Please, I'll do anything, I was so bad at being a fake free person for you, please, I hated it, it was worse than sex, it was worse than being whipped, you were happier too once I started being a doll, please," and he hopes against hope.  
  
Foggy shudders and shakes and sobs, and it feels so wrong, but then Foggy just says, "No sex anymore, not all, not ever, no punishments, I'll never hit you," over and over again.  
  
It takes a long while of Foggy clutching Matt and Matt trying to radiate comfort and warmth, trying to say with his body _see I'm so good at this now, I'm being good for you, please don't punish me_ , and Foggy calms down after a while. Bee sits there, silent and easy to forget about. Matt feels warm, intense affection towards them.  
  
Foggy says, eventually, "Shit, Matt. I just--I want to give you everything that you want."  
  
Matt says, his fury prickling at him, "I _want_ to be your _doll_ , not a parody of a person," and Foggy holds him tighter.  
  
"Then I'll do that for you," Foggy says eventually. "I promised myself once I'd stop trying to decide what it was okay for you to like and want and I will, I just. Matt. _Matt_ ," and he almost starts sobbing again.  
  
Matt murmurs, "I'm okay, I'm safe, there is no danger here, we're both okay and safe," and Foggy makes himself stop.  
  
"Uh," Foggy says, wiping at his face. "Ugh. Shit. Snot. Okay, fuck. This was a horrible mistake to approach it like this. Let's--today is fired. Today is fucking fired. Let's just, cuddle party. That sound good to you, Matt?"  
  
Matt smiles and nods. God, yes. Dolls are for cuddling.  
  
"Okay," Foggy breathes out. "Let's have some of the junk food I totally shouldn't be eating and, and, Matt, you and me, let's cuddle on the couch. And Bee--you can join us or you can not, it's fine."  
  
Bee nods. "I have studying," they type. "A paper to finish for tomorrow."  
  
"Okay," Foggy says. "Let's--Matt, you like that one show about cooking, too? Cupcake Fights or something?"  
  
Matt nods. "Please, Foggy," he says.  
  
Foggy breathes in and out deeply and stands up, grabbing some of the reward-blankets. "Get some strawberries," he tells Matt. "And I'll get the chips and those Girl Scout cookies and, uh, water or milk or something, and then we'll have a cuddle party and I can stop freaking you the fuck out."  
  
Matt bites his lip and nods.  
  
Foggy ends up mostly-sitting, with Matt lying down, wrapped in the blanket like a burrito, head on his owner's lovely soft stomach, listening to his organs as Foggy digests. Matt eats, too, a strawberry every time he murmurs something about the cupcake techniques that makes Foggy's heartbeat go down just that much more.   
  
"You really don't want to be a free person, do you?" Foggy asks him, quiet, a couple of hours into the impromptu marathon.  
  
Matt shakes his head frantically. No, no, please--  
  
"It's okay," Foggy says. "It's okay, you don't have to pretend to be happy, it's okay, you're safe, no sex and no punishments and no selling, I promise, I promise," and Matt makes himself stop fucking overreacting.  
  
It's so good and Matt feels so wrung out from the adrenaline and fury and wrestling himself back under control that he ends up falling asleep there, happy at the knowledge that at least he's still a doll, even if he gets punished or Bee ends up sold he'll still be a doll. He'll be safe. His position is miraculously secure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also comes from Dorothy Allison's "The Women Who Hate Me".


	65. when something is trembling, screaming, or trying to jump in a river, my mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for graphic rape that takes place as a dream, and not in reality.

At first, Matt doesn't realize it's a dream. Actually, he only realizes it's a dream when it's almost over.   
  
It's in the early morning. There's some hazy patches of what Matt remembers sunlight looking like—like how a roaring fireplace feels from curled up on the floor, on the other end of the room, gentle but strongly warm—and there's Foggy on his bed. Foggy, in _Matt's_ bed. Both of these should have been clues that it was just a dream, but it feels so real, and he's so scared, his heartbeat a hummingbird.  
  
And Matt at first wonders if Foggy's just going to cuddle him, because Foggy is mostly asleep still, and he smiles and relaxes into it, reminding himself that Foggy doesn't have sex with him anymore and really it's an honor to sleep curled up with your owner, and then Foggy snuffles into his neck and kisses his jugular, and Matt goes cold all over.   
  
Foggy says, breath like battery acid, “Hey, Matt, Matt-y,” and Matt feels a flicker of something in him, he doesn't like _Matty_ , it should only be said in his Dad's voice so he can never forget what his Dad's voice sounded like, “Matty, baby, doll,” and Matt goes stiff.  
  
“Hey, doll,” and the word _doll_ is said in—well, not really Foggy's voice, Matt's not sure whose, “Baby doll. My doll, c'mere,” and Matt obeys, but the whole time he is shrieking inside his head, he is curled up inside himself, starting to scream. Starting to beg and bargain and sob.  
  
Foggy kisses his neck, and then bites and sucks on his collarbone, and the pain is so much better than how the rest of him feels. But then Foggy stops and kisses all over Matt's face, and slurs out, “Oh, Matty, Matty baby, my Matt, all mine,” and the possessiveness is so sweet but the kisses feel horribly wrong, and Foggy's erection is rubbing against him.   
  
“Maaaat,” and Foggy sounds skin-drunk, “Matt, baby. Hmm. Mine. Come on, Matt, be good for me now,” and Matt freezes because he has to, he wants to, but he wants Foggy to go away and stop kissing him. He wants Foggy to realize what he's doing and _stop_. He wants his Dad to come in and hit Foggy and make him stop. He wants to use his training and throw Foggy off and break his hands, cut them off so they can't ever touch Matt again.  
  
 _It's just kisses_ , Matt bargains with himself. _It's just kisses, you can endure this, stop being so pathetic about this, it's just kissing._  
  
And then, as if Foggy can hear this thoughts, there's a hand going underneath his pajama pants, and Foggy rubs him. Slowly, and he pulls his hand out, licks it, making sounds of appreciation, and puts it back down, and Matt—  
  
Matt can't do anything. Matt can't stop him. Matt—if Foggy asks if he wants it, he has to say _yes_ , no is for people, Foggy liked it before when Matt said _yes, I want this_ —  
  
“You _could_ defend yourself,” and is that Stick's voice? Where did he come from? “You could stop him. You're a soldier. But, wait—no, no, you're not. You're weak.”  
  
Matt glares—fuck Stick, fuck him, fuck his stupid words and his stupid fucking secret war—and then he goes stiff all over again as Foggy teethes his earlobe.  
  
“I'll help you,” Stick says, leering, bending over Matt now, and how does Foggy not see him? Why doesn't he stop? “If you can scream for help, I'll ask you.”  
  
Matt sucks in a breath—  
  
And he can't scream, he can't, bad slaves scream for help, it's stupid slaves who are so ungrateful that they scream for help, it's zombies being dragged into medical centers by teams of scientists who scream for help, who struggle and beg and fight back. He can't do that.   
  
Matt knows—and it's another thing that should have tipped him off that this was a dream—that if he starts screaming like a zombie being yanked inside or chained to a stretcher, he'll turn into one, one from the movies about walking corpses, and his brains will fall out.  
  
“See,” Stick sneers. “I knew you were trash,” and then he vanishes and it's just Foggy, Foggy who's now licking Matt's nipples, Foggy who's calling him _Matty_ and _sweetheart_ and _darling_ and who's pinning him to the mattress, on top of him now, ass pressing against Matt's unwilling erection, Foggy who's telling Matt, “I wasn't _going_ to, I really wasn't, but you looked just so cute in the light, you shouldn't have slept in. And this feels so _good_ , such a good boy, wanting this for me, my perfect good boy,” and he rocks his disgusting hips and Matt can't breathe.   
  
He wants to be a good boy—he wants this to just be _over_ —he wants Foggy to die—  
  
But instead of passing out or feeling faint or escaping in his head, instead of Foggy just stopping, all that happens is that Foggy takes off his pajama bottoms and Matt's as well, hands oily and breathing wet and wanting, and Foggy laughs and says, “Oh, God, why did I ever deny myself, you're just too pretty, my pretty pretty pet,” and Matt's so afraid now that Foggy will make him into a pet.  
  
And then Matt realizes that somehow now he's got a dog muzzle on, the type they put on feral pets, and he really does scream at that, or try to, but it comes out like a bark, and Foggy giggles like Mistress Sharon and slides down and down and his repulsive hips are touching Matt's and Matt's cock is hard and he doesn't want this, he doesn't, he can endure being used, he can do anything to be called a good boy, but he doesn't want this, not at all but especially not in his bed.  
  
Not in his bed. Not in the place where Foggy lets him _sleep_ , by himself, under covers, with pajamas on like the most precious of dolls—no, better than that, Matt gets to sleep _alone_ in the bed, doesn't have to be pretty and sprawled out, and Foggy never touches it, never takes away any part of it for any reason, it's like how Matt used to sleep when he was a person—  
  
And Matt tries to pry off the muzzle as Foggy moans and tells him how he'll do this every day now, he'll try out every part of Matt, he'll get Rosalind's taint off of him properly like he should have done in the first place, once Bee's healed up he'll get them to join in too, wouldn't Matt like that, worthless cunt-slut that he is—  
  
And Matt's clawing at the muzzle which isn't plastic or metal, it's human flesh, no, it's dog flesh, furred and warm and pulsing and alive under his fingers—  
  
And Matt realizes it's a dream. There's no such thing as dog muzzles made of real dogs. He goes limp, hands on the sheets, and lets Foggy take what he wants, which is apparently an orgasm. He comes against his will and without permission, and already he feels whip strikes against the back of his thighs, impossibly.  
  
“See?” Foggy says, leaning down and kissing Matt. “See how much I love you?” and he wraps his arms around Matt tightly like he does sometimes now when Matt's frightened, and Matt doesn't breathe, doesn't think, doesn't say anything, doesn't pass out.  
  
God. In _his_ bed. But it's a dream, it's just a dream, and dreams end eventually, so Matt doesn't move, doesn't respond, and wakes up.  
  
To realizing he's _actually_ come in his sleep.  
  
\--  
  
Foggy doesn't realize how much Matt is fucked up until he slides out from under him and goes to clean up the dishes as much as possible--he doesn't think Matt actually sleeps enough, but he can't really order him to sleep more, so he's going to be quiet--and he realizes that Matt didn't even understand that he didn't want Matt to _pretend_ to be a free person, he wanted to _free_ Matt.  
  
But he can't bring it up again, not until he's got more phrasing down. He's not provoking another episode like that. It's not okay.  
  
As Foggy creeps out to the hallway to get into his own bed (well, to study for a bit and then get into bed), Bee Elle makes a wave gesture from inside the room.  
  
Have they seriously not moved this whole time?  
  
Foggy sits down and their tablet, so low it's a whisper, says, "Matt okay?"  
  
Foggy sighs. "I think Matt's not going to be okay, ever," he whispers back.  
  
They nod. And then, "Sleep well, Foggy," and they slip out, silent as a shadow.  
  
Foggy's brushing his teeth when he hears a faint noise, and he bolts back into the living room--  
  
To see Matt staring aimlessly, blinking tears out of his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Jeanann Verlee's "Poem to Translate the Poems", here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/38153436310/the-woman-is-my-own-regret-the-children-are-my


	66. it's hard to fight an enemy who has outposts in your head

Matt breathes in and out, trying to process things, trying to anchor himself back to the real world where that didn't just happen, but he can hear Foggy standing in the living room and shivers involuntarily. God, his body is so stupid, why is he reacting like this?  
  
He opens his mouth to murmur something to himself, something that will help him calm down, but Foggy's there, so he grabs onto a language Foggy doesn't speak, and begins to whisper "{You are capable of being a good slave,}" over and over again in Russian, and then Foggy sits down near his feet.  
  
"Hey, Matt," Foggy says gently. "You with me?"  
  
Matt swallows. "Of course, Foggy," and his whole body both wants to be touched and wants to run away.  
  
"You really with me? Where are you?"  
  
"In your apartment near Columbia, Foggy," Matt says.  
  
"And who am I?"  
  
"Foggy Nelson, my owner," Matt says, hoping it's what Foggy's going for.  
  
Foggy relaxes a bit, and then says, "Uh, okay, what else was on that list--"  
  
Matt's face does something without his permission, and Foggy clarifies, "I, uh, looked up a thing about grounding techniques since that time you didn't know what was going on, and let me see--okay, here we go," and Matt realizes Foggy's scrolling on his phone.  
  
"What year is it?"  
  
"2014, Foggy."  
  
"Uh, let's see...what was another good one...okay, describe what you're feeling?"  
  
Matt keeps his face impassive. This is cruel, but he can pass the test.  
  
"My owner sitting on the couch near me," and Foggy goes tense and stiff, and Matt tries to think of other physical sensations, and is abruptly assaulted by the horrible wetness in his pants.  
  
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he has to get rid of that, it is _beyond_ not allowed, it is absolutely unacceptable.

He should tell Foggy, but--no. He shouldn't. Foggy doesn't want anyone else even seeing him naked, Foggy will not want to be reminded that Matt has been used before and can dream about being used again, and what if Matt tells him and Foggy takes this as a, a, green light to go on and have sex with him again? After all this luxury of no sex, all those endless reassurances, Matt doesn't think he could cope, so he makes a decision. He won't upset his owner.  
  
He keeps as calm as he can, and says quickly, "I'm lying on the couch, Foggy," but the sensation of coming without permission and clawing at the dog-flesh muzzle comes back and he wants to vomit.  
  
"May I go take a shower, Foggy, please?" he begs.  
  
"Yeah, yeah, that will--I'll make us hot chocolate," Foggy says and gets up.  
  
"Thank you, Foggy," Matt murmurs gratefully and kisses Foggy's hand, fighting the bile rising, and gets up and into the shower as fast as he can.  
  
He sets it to cold, ice cold, and shivers wildly as he scrubs at himself. He's filthy, inside and out. He wants to rip off all his skin and show Foggy how there's no _real_ him hiding underneath. He wants to pour lye on his cock and cut it off and never have to deal with it ever again.  
  
Matt closes his eyes and leans his head against the wall. Sometimes kindness calms him down better, he remembers, and so he tries to be sweet. _Shh, shh, it's okay, it was just a dream, your owner doesn't want to have sex with you anymore, shh, you can be good, you just have to be smarter about it,_ and it's true, Foggy's heartbeat spikes in panic whenever Matt tests him to see if his rule about no sex is a mind game or not.  
  
He still feels mildly disgusted with himself--both for arguing and talking back to his owner earlier, and for that dream--so he scratches at his cock, hard enough to draw small beads of blood, and then he viciously scrubs into the wounds. It hurts but really, it's what he deserves, being so disgustingly pathetic like that.  
  
His head clears as the ice-bath shower finishes and he steps out, shivering gratefully at the towel. He dries off and realizes that he doesn't have any pajamas right there to change into, so he folds up his clothes in his arms, walks to the bedroom, and changes.  
  
Then he remembers Foggy saying he'd make him hot chocolate, and turns to head back into the kitchen too, and then Foggy says quietly, "You with me, Matt?"  
  
Matt nods, takes the mug, and slides down onto his knees where he should be in the first place, and drinks slowly and deeply, the taste of the chocolate keeping him calm.  
  
\--  
  
Matt seems just...upset and scared, but not that terrifying out-of-it dissociated he had been that night, and Foggy tries to remain calm about this. He wonders what it was that Matt was dreaming about.  
  
He thinks about Matt's words earlier and swallows. _I'm not a person_ , and as horrible as they had been, that was just as much Matt's true voice as when he lost it and made that septum-ring asshole back off.  
  
_You think I care about any of your utterly insignificant feelings_ and _I want to be your doll, not a parody of a person_. Two sides of the same coin.  
  
Foggy doesn't understand how Matt could possibly be so full of righteous fury and yet be so self-degrading. He doesn't understand it. He wants to flinch away from it, he wants to forget all of it, he wants his blissful pre-Matt ignorance back.  
  
But he thinks about what Matt snarled at Devyn, about _your guilt, your stupid worthless guilt_ and _you are the kind of person who thinks that their worthless feelings that will never matter and never make any difference help any of us_ and _you are the kind of person that wants us broken and bleeding so you can make it all better_ , about guilt and excuses and pain.  
  
And he thinks about _please don't make me have to lie to you again_ and _there isn't any free person hiding inside my skin and if I rip it off to show you them all I'll be is skinned_ and Foggy comes to a firm resolution.  
  
He is going to meet Matt on his own terms, not force him to Foggy's. It's like they're both on opposite ends of a tightrope, and Foggy has to come over more to help them out, not because Matt's not meeting him halfway, but because Foggy has a safety net below and Matt doesn't.  
  
If he fucks this up any worse, it's not Foggy who's going to suffer for it.  
  
Foggy nods to himself and watches Matt drink his hot chocolate, kneeling.  
  
"Hey, Matt," he says gently. "Do you like it when I--?" and he scratches one hand through Matt's cold, wet hair.  
  
Matt's eyes flutter shut.  
  
"Yes, Foggy," he murmurs.  
  
Foggy thinks about how to make sure it's real. "I want to know what you like and don't like," he coaxes. "I don't like you being uncomfortable or afraid or sad or, or enduring things for me," and that last one is a bit of a lie--Matt defending him against Rosalind and being on his side against Winter and the Goodmans and Summer was beautiful--but he hopes Matt doesn't notice, "I like you being happy and getting nice things. Is that what being a doll is, by your definition? Being a slave who gets rewarded all the time?"  
  
"Dolls are meant to be spoiled, Foggy," Matt murmurs, eyes still shut.  
  
It's so fucked up. It's the most fucked-up thing Foggy will ever do, but then he nods, and keeps stroking Matt's hair. "Good, Matt?"  
  
Matt nods. "Thank you, Foggy," he says softly, and kisses Foggy's other hand.  
  
It's only a little bit sickening this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a quote from Sally Kempton.


	67. finally listening to the whole naked truth of our lives

Things seem to pass by in a routine after that.  
  
Foggy watches carefully whenever he interacts with Matt, but they both calm down and he doesn't make him panic so much again.  
  
Bee, though, he doesn't have much of a handle on. They avoid talking about anything emotional, and whenever it's three of them in a room, they're always on the other side of Matt, buffering a distance between them.  
  
Foggy takes the hint and doesn't try to be alone with them, doesn't hug them. He wishes he'd been smart enough to not do that from the beginning with Matt. He wishes he could go back in time and give the other him a long lecture and an itemized, annotated list of What Not to Do to Fuck Up Matt.   
  
But then again, at the beginning, he hadn't been in love with Matt, hadn't understood at all how fucked-up he was. He'd thought of him as this creepy, robot-like automaton that he couldn't regift because of Rosalind.  
  
Foggy kind of hates himself a little bit for that.  
  
Things accelerate around classes, and everything apart from the lunch with Marci ends up being lose in a whirlwind of studying.  
  
The lunch with Marci goes something like this:  
  
Marci meets the three of them outside the dining hall with a bright, evil stepmother smile, and the first thing Bee does is tap something on Matt's arm that makes him make the face he does when he's trying so hard to not laugh because he thinks it'll piss someone off.   
  
It's not exactly the worst sign, but the way Marci's face draws tight is.  
  
They get the food, Marci clears her throat and says politely, "It's nice to meet you, Matt and--?"  
  
"Bee Elle," Bee's tablet says. "Nice to meet you."  
  
"Nice to meet you, Marci Stahl," Matt says and puts another forkful of salad in his mouth, seductively. Foggy still has no idea how or why he does it.  
  
Marci goes absolutely still and turns to Foggy, eyes outraged. Foggy stares her down. Matt can damn well call her by her name, like a normal fucking person, and not 'Miss Stahl' or whatever the byzantine fucked-up slave protocol demands, and if she has a problem with it, well. Foggy can live without her.  
  
Marci must see what he means in that stare, and doesn't say anything about it. Instead she says, "Which type of law is your favorite so far?"  
  
Matt says, politely, "Criminal law," and Bee snorts and says with their tablet, "Property law."  
  
Everyone stares at them, except for Matt, who stares at a point two inches above their right shoulder. "Property law?" Foggy says, incredulous.  
  
"I especially love the clause in that one law that states that owners who allow their slaves to run away for more than three days can be punished for 'endangering animal welfare'," Bee explains, a twist in their mouth. "It's fascinating how the law seems to regard us as a cross between a dog and an espresso machine," and Matt snorts very loudly at that.  
  
"Don't forget the laws about how slaves rented or bought by US federal agencies have to be 'stored' in certain ways to prevent 'misfires'," Matt says brightly. "We're dogs that are also espresso machines that are also  _guns_ ," and they both crack up.  
  
Foggy's mouth opens and closes and once Bee catches sight of his face they go flatly silent. Matt does too.  
  
Marci clears her throat. "I also prefer criminal," she says. "Least boring. Would you rather be defense or prosecution, Matt?"  
  
Matt returns to eating, and then says quietly, "I prefer defense, Marci Stahl," and takes a quick bite.   
  
"You want to defend people from a corrupt and violent police force?"  
  
Matt's face twists into something like anger and then smoothes itself out, and Foggy interrupts because he can tell by now when Matt would rather be silent but feels as if he has to answer questions.  
  
"I mean, the role of a defense attorney is really to ensure that the prosecution actually does their job properly," Foggy says.   
  
"In theory," Marci says. "In practice, the role of a defense attorney is to fight in an almost gladiatoral style match against the prosecution in order to get the defendant the best possible consequences of being tried."  
  
Matt says, voice now his usual soft, "If they're gladiators, who do you believe the audience is?"  
  
That's...actually, a good question. Marci looks at Matt thoughtfully, a glitter in her eye.  
  
"The American public, of course," she says, and Matt arches an eyebrow.   
  
"Well, who do _you_ believe it would be?" she asks.  
  
Matt says, like he does in mock debates, "Not the American public. Most people don't pay attention to trials unless they're...scandalous."  
  
He must be referring to something that Foggy doesn't know about, because Marci's face freezes and then she abruptly changes subject. "So I hear you fucked up Devyn Lorianne."  
  
Matt's eyes smile and his mouth stays serene.  
  
Foggy says, just in case he needs it, "It was like watching Muhammed Ali," he says. "Swing like a--how does the saying go?"  
  
Matt says, "Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, Foggy," and Foggy grins at him.   
  
"Yeah, that. It was amazing. Guy got maybe a few seconds of words in and Matt _destroyed_ him," and Matt smiles and ducks his head.  
  
"Really," Marci says. "One wonders why."  
  
Matt doesn't say anything, keeps eating. Foggy meets her nosy look and shrugs.   
  
Marci sighs. "Well, I've got a meeting with an internship's recruiter to go to," she says, and stands up. "Thank you, Foggy, your dolls are fascinating. Talk to you all some time later, maybe after break?"  
  
Matt doesn't say anything. Bee gives a short wave. Foggy says, "Later, Marci."  
  
She goes away and Foggy watches her ass for a few seconds because it's mesmerizing, and then they all eat in...well, not comfortable, not yet, but familiar silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also comes from Dorothy Allison's "The Women Who Hate Me".


	68. as a way of practicing equality, some vague idea about giving up power is useless

Nothing at all notable happens until the end of finals, besides finals, which are even more nervewracking than in college.

But on the other hand, Foggy thinks to himself, he has perspective now. As hideously stressful as finals are--and they're hideous all right, Foggy ends up twitching and shaking and wanting to get hit by a car and spend a couple of months chilling in a hospital bed--the whole time he knows that if he really does fuck up, at least nobody will die. It's easier than dealing with the threat of those awful people taking back Matt, or fighting Rosalind.

Matt appears calmly confident the whole time, and why wouldn't he be? He's been holding a steady 4.0 the entire semester, though not for lack of studying.

Bee...Bee seems to be almost a ghost, not speaking, not doing anything but studying, bent over books, hair hiding their face. They chug cans of ensure and other supplement drinks and Foggy barely sees them at all.

One day, the day they have the last final--Torts--he sees Matt quietly talking to them. He immediately hides behind the corner, pretending he's not there.

"You have to stop moping," Matt's saying softly. "Stop worrying. Get up and go do the dishes. You'll be fine. Foggy's not a perfectionist. Now do your share of the work."

They bare their teeth and snap back, robot voice dissonant to their face, "Fuck off."

Matt doesn't look bothered. "Go do the dishes. You're driving yourself crazy. Without regular breaks, you don't actually memorize or understand things better."

They snip, "Oh, because you understand everything. That's why you made our owner cry, through your superior knowledge."

Matt doesn't take the bait, but he looks furious. "Go do the fucking dishes before Foggy notices," and they glare at him but then get up to do them.

Foggy stares.

What can he do about that?

\--

After finals, it's time for break, which means that it's time for Bee Elle to meet the Nelsons.

They all bundle up and get overnight bags packed--it'll actually be less crowded there for tonight, and Foggy wants to be able to have those deep life-changing conversations at two in the morning with Anna and Candace, plus his family's been confirmed to be decent human beings when it comes to Matt--and go.

They get there, and Foggy knocks.

Dad opens the door.

"Foggy," Dad says, and surges forward and wraps him in a huge, tight hug.

Foggy breathes sharply, and hugs Dad back.

"Come in, all of you, you must be exhausted," Dad says, and they go in, Matt saying quietly, "Hello, Mr--Edward."

Bee's silent but Foggy glances back and they nod at Dad.

"Anyway," Dad says, "We're going to have fondue tonight, your mother decided, come in and sit down," and he goes back to the kitchen.

Candace is sitting on the staircase, smiling, and comes down to hug Foggy.

"Finals really fucked you up, bro, huh," she says.

Foggy nods but--it's not just finals. It's everything. Since over a month before the semester began, he's been stressed as fuck, and ever since he started to get a handle on himself and stop pretending Matt didn't exist, he's been even more exhausted.

He feels guilty for even thinking it, it's not like it's Matt's _fault_ that he's some sort of wizard that make totally innocuous things like rainy days and strawberries horrifying, and takes a deep breath. His first therapist's appointment four days from today, and he'll talk about it there.

"Yeah," he says. "But--I'm home now, I'm okay," and Candace grins.

Then she goes to greet them both. "Hey, Matt," she says, and hugs him too. "You're looking _good_ ," she says appreciatively, looking him up and down like she does ordinary hot guys, and Foggy winces and makes the 'stop' hand gesture at her.

She glances back at him, confused, and he mouths _I'll explain later_ , because she really needs to know that anything even vaguely sexual, even innocuous flirting, has to be avoided with Matt. He can't let Matt think anyone's going to rape him.

Bee Elle watches the exchange curiously.

Candace comes forward to hug them too, and in a blink Bee's behind Foggy, hiding. Foggy wants to kill everyone who's ever touched them before.

Candace, thankfully, doesn't make it weird, just says, "So your name is--?"

Bee Elle looks at Foggy.

Foggy says, "Uh, their name is Bee Elle, Bee for short."

Candace beams. "Bee! That's so cute! Come on, let's get all of you settled, Mom will throw a fit if I don't get you guys something to drink and start catching you up on the latest Nelson Clan gossip!"

They follow her, Bee signing _Thank you, Foggy_ to him.

\--

All three of them ended up planted in chairs at the dining room, Candace hurriedly getting them all glasses of sparkling cider.

Matt and Bee look deeply confused by what's going on. Foggy's heart hurts, remembering how Matt has never failed to be at least somewhat baffled by the way that before Foggy went to law school, Matt ate at the table.

(The first day, he'd knelt by Foggy's chair, and Foggy had hastily pulled him up by the arm and said, "Dude, don't do that, that's creepy," and it had sort of...set the tone for all future meals together. Matt's silence sucked the comfort out of the atmosphere.)

(But that's not _Matt's_ fault, Foggy reminds himself.)

Bee and Matt are tapping on each other's hands, and Foggy carefully doesn't let himself try to pay attention to the pattern. He's vowed to not learn Morse at all, lest he take away a source of honest communication for them.

He gets absorbed in Candace's long monologue about the various scandals, tragedies, and changes, and before long he's forgotten about anything but laughing along with her.

\--

[You're sure they're going to feed us too? It's a fondue, it'll be easy for them to just not let us.]

[I'm sure. Even when Foggy thought I was disturbing,] and that sticks in Matt's craw, [His family fed me. There was only one time he didn't, and that was because he forgot, because he was sick.]

[He 'forgot' to feed you because he was 'sick',] and he can hear the skepticism in it.

[He did forget. I can hear lies, Barely Legal.]

[And I know owner bullshit when I see it, asshole.]

Matt arches an eyebrow. [Well, one of us has to,] and they both laugh.

Bee Elle's hand squeezes his. [I'm just worried about them. They're not Foggy, and he doesn't need us to stay functional to study when the semester's off.]

He squeezes back. Matt is also a little worried, but now is the time for Foggy to devote more attention to enjoying his dolls. He's sure he can make himself useful, coax Foggy into relaxing a little more. Besides, Foggy's starting therapy soon, and surely any therapist will help him understand the theraputic power of spoiling his dolls.

[I'll ask him for books.]

[What kind of books?]

[Well, I want to read Fifty Shades of Gray, and The Plum in the Golden Vase--]

[Why do you want to read that collar-ripper pro-slavery protectionist erotica trash written by a cunt who couldn't make an analogy if her life depended on it?]

[I want to critique it,] Matt explains, [Word by word, and overarching critiques as well. I'll make it a paper.]

They burst into laughter at that, rocking back and forth and convulsing, the tiny squeaking noise coming from them that they only do when they're screaming with mirth.

Candace--Foggy's sister--stops talking.

\--

It's very, very awkward, the dinner, at first. Apparently Anna _had_ told Candace and Dad that Bee Elle didn't have a tongue, but they either thought Foggy was lying, or exaggerating, or otherwise didn't internalize it, because they both stare, horrified, at them.

Foggy tries to distract them by, well, bragging about how smart and funny Matt is, mostly. The _funny_ part is a little difficult to get across, mostly because he can't mimic Matt's dry, acerbic wit very well, but Anna chimes in to say that he sounds like a delight as well as a hero for saving her son, and Matt actually flushes a bit at that and thanks her.

Foggy makes sure to go over the rules of fondue before they start. There's space for everyone's two skewers at once, and everyone gets a fair share of steak, sweet and banana peppers, shrimp, chicken, fish, onion, leek, carrot, celery, fingerling potato, mushroom, and scallion, and nobody is obliged to eat or like any particular thing, and everyone gets to eat as much as they like of the things, there's plenty for all, and everyone can get up at any point to get drinks as long as it's not from the liquor cabinet, as often or as not-often as they want, and everyone is allowed to try the things and then not eat them, and nobody has to clean their plate.

Candace looks skeptical and Dad confused right up until Foggy's finished emphasizing that and both Bee and Matt thank him, looking relieved, and then they look horrified.

Anna looks composed. Probably, as a therapist, it's just because she's used to horrific things, but Foggy wonders.

The food itself is absolutely delicious, and they all end up having tons and enjoying, except for Bee, who eats mostly mushrooms and shrimp, taking tiny bites and swallowing them without chewing. Foggy had forgotten how strange it looks to other people, and winces at the way Candace and Dad look upset every time they notice.

At the end of the meal, the oil bubbling with the leftovers tossed in together, Anna says, "Any adventures this semester, Foggy?"

Foggy pauses, and then brightens because he's remembered something he did in the haze of finals week.

"I have--let me get it, first," and he goes for his bag.

"Here," he says, fishing it out. "Bee, I did all your emancipation petition paperwork, I just wanted to ask you before I went to file it later tonight, did you want me to free you? You'll have to go in front of a panel, but I'll argue your case if you want."

There's a shocked second where Dad says, angry, " _Franklin Edward Nelson--_ "

And then Bee interrupts, eyes huge and desperate, getting out of their chair and onto their knees in front of Foggy, and sign and have their tablet say over and over again, "Oh, please, Foggy, yes, yes please," and then they grab at it and stop the loop and type again frantically and click play, and as the robot voice says, "Anything you want for it, please, Foggy," they reach for his pants--

And Foggy jumps backwards, falling down and promptly breaking the stupid Ikea chair.

There's a second of frozen silence and then Foggy laughs nervously. "No, don't, you don't have to do that ever, okay? I'm never going to hurt you. Uh, wow, my ass hurts now," and he goes for a look and Bee Elle looks beyond terrified, like they're petrified with hope.

So Foggy decides to do the only thing he can do to prove to them it's not a trick. "So, Ann--Mom, can you, uh, drive me to the bureau's office? The closest one?"

Anna nods. "Let's do that, then. Edward, get rid of this chair, it's been trash for years anyway," and then she grabs her keys and purse and coat and they go, Foggy double-checking to make sure he has all the papers.

\--

In the car, Anna asks only one thing.  
  
"Why do it this late tonight?"  
  
Foggy shrugs. "I don't want to deal with lines of people waiting with other people in leashes, having to kneel there for them." He's not sure he can cope with looking at other slaves and then walking away and not helping them.  
  
The bureau is empty apart from two employees and one security guard who is clearly bored as hell. He's playing Angry Birds, and the employee who motions Foggy over is thin and reedy.  
  
"Getting permits or stamps added to papers? Filing a decommissioning certificate?"  
  
Foggy doesn't punch through the plexiglass. "Filing an emancipation petition."  
  
The employee yawns, takes the paperwork, checks over it, and puts it into the system. Foggy hates the waste of paper, but the way it's set up, you get the forms either from the official website or in-person, fill them out on paper, bring them back in, and then the employee types them up and sends them off if they're done right, or gives you a fresh set, if they're not.  
  
Foggy realizes suddenly it's to keep the process as tedious and easy to procrastinate on as possible. Getting stamps put on or specific permits is much easier, although the stamps require a Slavery Bureau inspector's review. Decommissioning certificates--the slave equivalent of death certificates--are the most dehumanizing. You get the paper there or online, provide an address to where the corpse is, and the bureau's person for that comes out, does a quick DNA sample compared to the one on file, and the slave's number is up for grabs again.  
  
Foggy's form of procrastination on studying is now looking up legal things about slavery. He wishes he could stop.  
  
The employee frowns and then jumps back in surprise. "Huh," the guy says, and even through the plexiglass he smells like cheap weed. "You're the only person who's filed a petition for emancipation of a K-class in the tri-state area in the past two weeks."  
  
"And?"  
  
"And that means the hearing's in three days."  
  
Foggy gapes. What-- "I haven't had any time to prepare my case!"  
  
"Sucks for you, bro. Just re-file after you lose, if you're planning to actually win," the guy says with a shrug. "If you're just using it to make it like you more, at least this way you've got an even better excuse when it's still in a collar in four days."  
  
Foggy's mouth opens and closes soundlessly. He can't--  
  
Fuck. Okay. "Where's the panel going to be?"  
  
"In this courtroom," the guy says, and prints out a receipt with an official time, date, and place. "Don't be late there or your case gets thrown out automatically and you get fined."  
  
Foggy takes it, fingers numb. Fuck.  
  
And break was supposed to be _easier_.  
  
He tries to look on the bright side. At least this way, they'll be free faster than otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also comes from Andrea Dworkin's "I Want A 24-Hour Truce During Which There Is No Rape".


	69. sometimes when I look at their boots (covered in my blood) I still try to convince myself that I was kicked by someone else

Matt can't think. He can't breathe. He can't feel.  
  
He tries to just exist, tries to send his mind floating off into space, but then he's anchored back by Bee Elle, who pokes him sharply in the ribs.  
  
[Come on and help me clean this up,] they tap, making some sort of gesture. [Help me clean up the dishes. Be useful.]  
  
Matt bares his teeth but goes to do it. He knows he has to earn back Foggy's favor big-time after making him so upset, but he doesn't have to like it.  
  
He goes to help with the dishes--  
  
And Foggy's father--Master Edward--no, fuck, just Edward--stops him. "Hey, uh, no, it's my turn, why don't you just go to the living room and, and, do something?"  
  
Matt blinks and nods, stepping back. Bee takes his arm and guides him into it, which is helpful, because he can't concentrate on his surroundings. He can't make himself focus and be useful, he can't plan ahead, he can't analyze the mood of the room. He's adrift, lost.   
  
Why would Foggy _free_ Bee?  
  
He can't figure it out. He doesn't know why any owners free any slaves in the first place, and the only thing he can think is perhaps if the slaves were their children, or their lovers, before they were enslaved.  
  
(But he'd been surrounded at the market and ever since then by slaves who had been surrendered into it, often by their parents, who never came back for them.)  
  
He can't understand it. It makes things twist in his stomach, jealousy and hate and want and relief writhing together, growing together like poison ivy, putting down roots down inside of him and shooting up inside his stomach, wanting bloom out of his mouth.  
  
Matt keeps his mouth clamped shut. He won't ruin any of this.  
  
Edward comes over and gives Bee Elle another glass of the sparkling cider. “I'm so sorry Foggy did that,” he says, and Matt goes cold.  
  
“ _Asking_ you, like it was—like that's even a real question to ask,” Edward mutters. “It's like asking a drowning person if they'd like to be saved. For fuck's sake, Foggy, you just _do_ it,” and he seems disappointed and furious.  
  
Matt swallows. He doesn't know how to defend Foggy.   
  
Bee does something and Edward says, “Uh, I don't, I don't know what that means,” and then they type out, “Thank you, Mister Nelson.”  
  
“Call me Edward,” and he seems very flustered, immediately getting out of the room afterwards.  
  
Matt tries to map out the room, and when he's mostly done Bee interrupts, poking him in the ribs again, tapping.  
  
[Why'd Foggy do it just for me, then? He likes you more.]  
  
[I'm Class-M. No point. And he likes me enough to keep me,] Matt snippily retorts.   
  
[M? Seriously? Fuck,] and they seem genuinely distressed at it, finding his hands and holding and squeezing.  
  
[I'm fine with it,] Matt explained. [I've made the best of my life. It's what I deserve.]  
  
They snorted. [That's kind of the worst part,] and Matt doesn't know what they mean and can't bring himself to ask.  
  
It's awkward, sitting there, hearing the movements of Candace and Edward in the next rooms. It's very, very uncomfortable to listen to free people do work that he should be doing.  
  
Matt reminds himself, _your owner is the ultimate arbiter of what is and is not your duties,_ and tries to relax.   
  
He doesn't succeed until Candace casually breaks all the tension in the room by coming over and flopping down dramatically on the couch, her head on Matt's shoulder. “Hey, so, do you like Cupcake Wars?”  
  
Matt blinks. “Yes,” he says, because he does. “Very much, mi—Candace.”  
  
Candace audibly grins and grabs the remote. “Then let's watch. I wanna see if the Tim Burton cupcakes come out cool,” and turns it on.  
  
Matt makes sure his voice is very soft when he says, “Candace, I'm terribly sorry, but I don't think Foggy would want you to touch me.”  
  
Candace snorts. “It's cool, I know my brother, he's not some weird anti-cuddling fanatic,” and Matt makes himself be still and wait.

\--

In the car, Anna says, "So that's going to be an interesting few next days."  
  
Foggy sighs and slumps back. "Yeah," he says. "And just--please don't--like I know I didn't handle it very well the first time around, but please just...can we all not be a dick to Matt this time around? I learned a lot, living with him."  
  
"Such as?"  
  
"Matt's--like, you can't be too demanding, because he will literally do whatever you tell him to, it's intense, and you can't not tell him to do _anything_ because then he freaks out and tries to figure out what you want and he'll guess it's something horrible half the time, and, and, you can't just touch him out of nowhere, and," Foggy hung his head in his hands, trying to pull it all together. "Just--be careful and don't, like, put pressure on him to be okay or act like he's happy or a normal person, okay?"  
  
Anna looked at him, her face calm and gentle. "Sounds like good advice for everyone," and Foggy breathed a sigh of relief.  
  
He loved Anna. She both was and wasn't his mom, but he was glad to have her in his family anyway.  
  
\--  
  
They got back home, after Anna stopped at a place and bought them egregious amounts of chocolate ("Matt likes super dark, without any other flavors, and organic too because he can taste everything artificial, it's crazy").  
  
Foggy walked in, calmer now, and saw Candace cuddling Matt.  
  
He stopped what he was doing and _stared_ , trying to decode what the fuck she thought she was doing.  
  
Matt looked--thankfully, not terrified or tense, but also like he was mildly afraid of something (you had to look at his back, Foggy had learned, or his toes, and not his face).  
  
Foggy sighed deeply. "Candace," he said. "Can I talk to you in my room?"  
  
Candace paused the episode of Cupcake Wars that was on, and said, "Sure, Fog," and followed him up.  
  
"Candycane, sister mine," he started out, teasing her a bit because otherwise she'd get pissed at the next part, "Please don't just touch Matt like that."  
  
"What, like any other hot guy who doesn't tell me to quit it?"  
  
"Like you can just touch him without his permission," Foggy snapped. "Candace, Matt can't say no to you. You have to be careful about this."  
  
She glared at him. Her new haircut made her face look sharper.   
  
"What do you mean, Matt can't say no to me? What the hell have you been telling him?"  
  
"Nothing," Foggy said, fists clenching. "It's not about that, Candace, it's about the fact that legally, socially, and in a very physical way he has no rights and you can't just pretend or hope that away!"  
  
"But why doesn't he know by now that we wouldn't hurt him?" she demanded. "Have you just been sitting around at Columbia with your thumb up your ass, fucking girls and letting the status quo go?"  
  
"No, I've been studying like a _responsible_ student and fucking learning new things about that world!" Foggy snarled.  
  
Then he realized with an unpleasant shock that that was a low blow. He hadn't meant to say that.  
  
"Fuck," he said. "Fuck, sorry, shit. I didn't mean to say that. It's just--Candace, look, I know our collective familial strategy before I went to Columbia was to pretend Matt didn't exist, and it was cruel and horrible and we're not doing it again. And we can't also pretend that he's just any free person off the street who's wearing a collar for hazing purposes or something. We have to do this right. We have to be careful and not just forget all the ways that he can't or won't act like we expect."  
  
She still looked doubtful. "He seemed fine to me," she said irritably.  
  
"His toes were curled up tight," Foggy retorted. "Maybe his face was totally relaxed and calm but his toes were curled up, probably because now he's fucking scared that I'm going to be angry because you were touching him."  
  
"You _are_ angry that I was touching him," she pointed out, folding her arms.  
  
"Yes, and I'll explain why later, but for now, Candace, just--treat it like he's an exchange student from a super abusive family, okay? Cultural differences. He won't outright tell you no, but if he says something like 'I don't think Foggy would like that', it could be that he means ' _I_ don't like that' but he can't say that. Just--use your brain, it's a great one."  
  
She rolled her eyes. "My brain is a geyser of blood-spotted shit half the time, bro, that's why I had to take this goddamn gap year in the first place."  
  
Foggy held out his arms. "Naw, it's great, you're great. I'm sorry for yelling at you. Hug it out?"  
  
"Hug the pain away," she agreed, and they hugged.  
  
"Ooh, chocolate," she said happily.  
  
"Yeah, let me grab that," Foggy said, and went back downstairs.  
  
\--  
  
Matt was tense and confused as he listened to Foggy and Candace come back downstairs.  
  
So next time, he needed to really reiterate that his body was for his owner to touch and not even other family members. Okay. He could do that.  
  
Once Foggy was also in the room and Edward and Mistre--Anna, she preferred Anna--were also coming in, Matt said softly, "I apologize, Foggy--"  
  
"It's fine, it's not your fault, Candace is kind of handsy sometimes, more than _she should be_ ," Foggy said, heartbeat steady.  
  
"Yeah, with guys that could make Channing Tatum cry with jealousy," she said.   
  
Foggy groaned and then she added, "Kidding! Just kidding!"  
  
Matt shifted minutely, heartrate picking up. Foggy said, over and over again, so often that Matt would have been offended at the implication that he couldn't remember orders if he didn't think it was also for Foggy's benefit, that he wasn't to have sex at all anymore, not ever, not with anyone, not under any circumstances, but still, what if Candace asked her big brother?   
  
Foggy loved her. Older brothers gave their sisters gifts, often, especially after a fight.  
  
Matt's gut clenched, but then Foggy said, sitting down to face Bee, "Okay, so here's the situation. Those dystopian fuckheads have decided to be even more assholish than normal, and so we're going to have to face the panel of ten evil exes in three days."  
  
Bee's heart went from a fairly normal pace for a slave in the presence of their owner to a fast, fluttery terror.  
  
"I'm going to do nothing but work on your case, and I was also going to ask you, Matt, to help, because you're amazing at arguments so far and I've looked it up, Bee Elle, and you can't actually argue your case."  
  
Bee's hands reached out and squeezed his, and Matt's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. How could Foggy expect him to help? How could he force him to participate in this farce?  
  
But he did. And Matt was obedient. He was expensive. He was high-class, and important, and not the kind of naive little imbecile who wouldn't obey an order just because he didn't want to.  
  
So Matt swallowed, and as Bee tapped out furiously, [I helped you stay a doll, help me, you owe me,] he said quietly, "I'll help, Foggy."  
  
For all the good it would do.  
  
There was a deep, exhausted silence, and then Edward said, sounding stupefied and flattened by life, "Anything else huge any of my children are doing?"  
  
Candace said brightly, "I'm getting my cat in four days!"  
  
All the free people laughed.  
  
\--  
  
Later that night, when Matt and Bee were curled in the living room--Matt had slept on the couch before they had moved to Foggy's apartment, and Foggy had worked it out so that they both were sleeping in the living room now, them in the camper under Foggy's parents' bed--they talked.  
  
[You really want this?] Matt asked, doubtfully. [What will you even do?]  
  
[Whatever I want. That's kind of the point.]  
  
Matt snorted, disdainful. [Be serious.]  
  
[Probably keep going to Columbia, if I somehow can. Or go to Canada. Or find a new hobby. Bake cupcakes.]  
  
[You're a terrible baker,] Matt teased. It was true; every time they tried to cook anything, even with a lot of help, it turned out terrible. It wasn't helped by the fact that they couldn't even remember most concepts of taste, and certainly not subtle flavors. Even some textures were lost on them.   
  
Bee shrugged, fabric against their shoulder. [I'd want to be friends with you still, snobby asshole that you are.]  
  
Matt curled up further. [We couldn't be. Not really. Not anymore.]  
  
[Don't be so cynical. You'd know I'd never do anything horrible to you.]  
  
[I don't know that. Overseers even--]  
  
[I wouldn't be an overseer. Remember how our owner treats you? How he gets angry whenever anyone tries to touch you or order you?]  
  
Matt thought about it. [Hudson Goodman--]  
  
[One of the cunts that used to own me?]  
  
Matt winced, but continued. [He's getting kicked out for damaging another student's property. Foggy's complaint had enough witnesses from the staff that he didn't have to even make the case.]  
  
[Good. Now if only someone shoots him in the head, my life will be complete.]  
  
Matt smiled and rolled over. [But then if you're free, you'll be a person and I won't be,] and he realized how petulant he sounded.  
  
He wanted to reach down and break a toe, but that would be far too extreme, and Foggy had him stand up and walk around all the time anyway, so it would interfere too much.  
  
Instead he dug his fingernails into the inside of his elbow.  
  
Bee didn't respond for a long enough time that Matt thought they had fallen asleep.  
  
[You're a person,] they tapped. [You're a person as much as me or our owner. We're people no matter what.]  
  
Matt listened, but then they said nothing more.  
  
He thought about it, and about how Winter used to be a slave, and then almost screamed 'Eureka!'  
  
He knew the basis for his argument, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Chime" by Jeanann Verlee, here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xk9Sc-1ObS4


	70. determined to do the only thing you could do— determined to save the only life you could save

The next two days are a blurry mess of preparation and terror.

The hearing is at nine in the morning in a cold courthouse, and Foggy makes sure he's got rides and back-up rides ready to go, and he, Matt, and Bee Elle make their cases.

Bee can't argue for their own freedom, but they help refine and strengthen their arguments. Matt's making two of them, and Foggy ends up so wrapped up in trying to communicate the simple, important facts—slavery is wrong, Bee Elle deserves better, how could they not free them, it's such a simple thing, it's so little, how could they not—that he misses most of it and doesn't know what Matt means to say.

It's a haze, and Foggy struggles to both replace 'they' with 'she' in the documents (Matt had pointed out that the panel wouldn't understand the use of any pronoun that wasn't he, she, or it, and Foggy fumed but knew better than to be petty and fuck it up for Bee), and he doesn't have time to think about anything else. The only reason any of them eat or sleep is because Anna calmly reminds them that they need to keep their strength up and Dad fusses about putting some color in Bee's cheeks.

They look deeply confused by all the mother-henning, but by the night before their emancipation petition is voted on, all three of them are sitting in the living room, sipping hot chocolate and shivering with anticipation.

–

Matt's glad this is almost over, and queasy at the pressure.

He's decided to repress all the worrying, inappropriate jealousy that he can, and focus on his task ahead of him. He's to help Bee Elle be freed—and _really_ be freed, not as a joke, Foggy is not like a cinderella's prince in any real way—and at least that way Foggy will be able to focus his attention on him.

Matt eats a chocolate in front of Foggy, sipping the hot chocolate Anna has made for them all, and thinks about the concept of him _giving permission_ for people to touch him. He doesn't understand it. It sounds like the sort of thing with the enthusiastic consent and the other pretending-to-be-a-free-person gobbledygook that Foggy has said, explicitly, that he doesn't have to do.

But all the same, Foggy hadn't been lying, so Matt turns it over and over in his head, trying to find a way to get at the core concept while fitting it into what Foggy has told him, the way Foggy seems to have accepted Matt's doll status.

He eventually decides that it means that Foggy doesn't want anyone else touching him, and especially not anyone whose touch would cause Matt any distress, which fits into how Foggy only seems to like Matt's distress when it's immediately successfully soothed away by Foggy.

Matt sips more hot chocolate, appreciating it. Everything seems to have happened so fast, and more will be happening quickly again soon.

Tomorrow morning, they'll be arguing for the panel to emancipate Bee Elle, who was shaky until noon today. Now they're steady, and happy, and calm.

[Matt,] they tap. [If anything goes wrong, I just want you to know, you're my friend, okay? And I appreciate you getting me away from those cunts. This way will be better, no matter what happens.]

Matt blinks. [It'll be okay. Foggy is a pretty good owner, just inexperienced,] he comforts them. [I thought wrong at the beginning, but now he's getting better at it.]

[But—just in case anything does go wrong—I have a notebook among my other ones. It's got your name scratched on the back. In case things go really wrong, take it, okay? Take it and hide it from everyone else.]

Matt went cold with fear. [You won't—]

[I want to be free. I need to be free.]

[And people in hell want ice water. They exist even without it,] Matt snapped. [Don't you dare do that.]

[I'll do whatever I want with my own fucking body,] they sniped back. [Regardless of how tomorrow goes.]

Matt resists the urge to pin them down and make them stop with this craziness. [Being dead isn't better than being alive!]

[It'll be better than going on stagnating like this,] they reply.

[If you really think death is better than being a slave, why aren't you with those idiots who go around bombing zombie mansions?]

[Because it's only MY life that I get to take away,] they tap furiously. [Mine. My life, that I own, that's mine and nobody else's, because I'm a person, and if I can't live it freely then I won't live it any more. Not now that I can have any better. Not now that I'm not full of despair. No more. Not one more day in this fucking collar.]

Matt grits his teeth. He'll just have to be vigilant if they don't win the case. He won't let them go down this road. It would be humiliating, and awful, and he already took such huge gambles, keeping them alive in the first fucking place. He won't let Bee throw it all away like it was nothing. He won't have another empty space where a fellow slave should be. He can't bear any more.

Matt strengthens his resolve, and turns away from them, curling into Foggy. Foggy loves it now when Matt touches him first, so long as it's not capable of suggesting at sexuality overtly.

He winces and thinks about Candace, about how he knows she wants to use him. She's nice, and funny, and likes Cupcake Wars because the female judge has the same name as her, but all the same, he doesn't want to be used by her. He wouldn't have minded at the beginning, and certainly not before he came to be Foggy's—she certainly would probably be easier to please than Mistress Sharon, and he felt stupid for thinking that he didn't want sex with her—but now that he had the immense, unthinkable luxury of no sex at all, he didn't want to go back.

Matt pinched himself discreetly. At this rate, he'd have to find a time and place somewhere after the case to remind himself of his place, to stop letting being spoiled go to his head. And he'd have to do it without _any_ real physical damage, because of Foggy's rules.

He wasn't looking forward to it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also comes from Mary Oliver's "The Journey".


	71. fear is the most elegant weapon

The morning of the petition hearing, Matt woke up early, did as much of his morning yoga and conditioning as he could, and slipped into the kitchen to make coffee.  
  
He was prepared. He was ready. His two arguments were rehearsed, crisp, and clear. He would do his best.  
  
Bee Elle woke up early, too, eyes bright and resolute. They looked like someone who had figured out the solution to a very large problem very suddenly.  
  
Matt let his anger at the idea of them throwing away their life go into his veins, fuel him. He thought about his arguments, his rhetoric, and didn't say a word to them. Instead, he just put his coffee down, and quietly hugged them in the kitchen.  
  
It might be the last time he could for--well, conceivably, his entire life. If they were freed, he couldn't touch them. Foggy didn't want anyone else touching him.  
  
[You ready, Barely Legal?]  
  
They snorted and swallowed some of the coffee he'd poured for them (loaded with cream and sugar; the more calories, the better). [At least all I have to do is be there and be still. You've gotta talk to those cunts.]  
  
Matt smiled. [Talking is rather what I'm good at,] and the two of them giggled nervously.  
  
[I hate them,] Bee said, turning to face the window. Matt wondered why they were looking out of it. [I hate them all. Every one of them. Every fucking free person on this planet. And I hate that we have to do this.]  
  
Matt leaned forward and thought about how he comforted other slaves when they'd earned it. He kissed their forehead, and put one hand on their hair, gently stroking it.  
  
"We'll be okay," he said quietly. "We'll be fine. Whatever happens, you'll survive it."  
  
[I can't live through it if I'm not freed,] they insisted.   
  
"Almost all the time when people say that can't live through something, what they really mean is that they don't want to," Matt quoted Summer. "And even then, if they really can't, what often happens is instead they die and the body is inhabited by something else that did live through it."  
  
[Matt,] they tapped, and Matt kept gently combing through their hair. [We've only got so many lives in us to use up.]  
  
"And you've got more left in you," Matt retorted. "I know broken or dying slaves. You're neither."  
  
[That makes one of us,] they said.  
  
Matt frowned. "I'm not broken."  
  
They paused, thinking, leaning into him, and came out with, [No, you're something else.]  
  
Matt sighed. "Broken slaves can't be fixed."  
  
[Neither can you. But let's stop before we end up fighting.]  
  
Matt snorted and there they stood, drinking the coffee, keeping a hand on the time. They had half an hour before they had to go get ready.  
  
"Go away inside your head," Matt said suddenly. "I don't know what you did before when there was an official hearing, but go away inside your head. Go to Elsewhere. Don't panic and don't scream, whatever happens. It'll just make things worse."  
  
[I'm not an amateur. I'm not new to suffering,] they retorted.  
  
"I know," Matt murmured, and hugged them, warm and not small anymore in his hold.  
  
Matt listened to Foggy coming down the stairs and carefully moved away.   
  
"Morning," Foggy said, half-awake, reaching for the mug, adorable.  
  
Matt realized with a jolt that he was _fond_ of Foggy now, and smiling at how cute his owner was like this, still partially sleepy and so sincerely generous, and felt a little swooning fear.   
  
But then he breathed in and out, and focused himself. Besides, it was only natural to like an owner once they began to put him to work properly.  
  
\--  
  
The ride to the courthouse was quiet and tense.  
  
Matt and Bee didn't tap at all, just held each other's hands, squeezing tightly, stroking fingers over one another, knotting their knuckles.   
  
It was as intimate as anything else Foggy had ever seen--more than a lot of sex--and Foggy had to look away to escape the uncomfortable feeling that he was seeing something he wasn't meant to.  
  
He didn't _think_ Matt and Bee Elle had those sorts of feelings for each other--they acted more like siblings who were forced to live together--but all the same, there was something desperately, deeply loving about the way they were soothing each other, promising something.  
  
Foggy adjusted his tie, went over his notes, and thought about what he knew of the process. You had up to twenty minutes to give your case, after the panel read aloud over the papers, and they could buzz you out at any time. All ten panelists were official government employees, and at least three were directly working for the Slavery Bureau. There was a spokesperson for them, and during the process, Bee was going to be 'appropriately restrained to prevent accidents'.  
  
Foggy had no idea what it meant.  
  
Matt and Bee both looked good, sharp. Matt's suit fit him well, and the flair of red on his tie--not bright red, but a dark, vivid red that went with the circular sunglasses Candace had fished out from somewhere in her room last night, as she and Dad made sure they were all dressed as much as would help their case--highlighted the subtle reds in his dark brown hair. He was also wearing his silk-lined black collar with his head held high. Matt looked crisp, composed, and ready.   
  
The only thing missing, Foggy thought, was his cane, but the official website had said that no slaves that were allowed to argue the case alongside the owner (and it was a huge relief that any were) would be allowed anything that could be construed as a weapon, and the cane could be, unfortunately.  
  
Foggy himself had on a suit as well, a plainer gray one, and he'd triple-checked and lightly hairsprayed his hair to look more professional, after pulling it back.  
  
Bee Elle looked fiercely determined, like Eowyn before she had killed the Witch-King, their hair clean and their body in a very plain black yoga pants and long-sleeved black t-shirt, with the braided leather collar. Matt had assured everyone that for a formal, official occasion such as this, it was a suitable slave uniform, and anything more might come off as too much.  
  
Foggy waited, and they pulled up to the courthouse, and all three of them got out.  
  
Foggy held out his elbow, and Matt took it, and his gloved fingers laced with Bee Elle's as they walked into the room, in perfect harmony.  
  
\--  
  
The room itself was cold and impersonal, with marble floors and plain walls.  
  
In the center of the room was a contraption that took Foggy a few minutes to even puzzle out, and he only got the full picture a good five minutes later.  
  
"The slave will strip," the panel's spokesperson said impassively. "Including the collar. It will stand naked before the panel," and Bee's eyes darted wildly as they took off their coat, hat, gloves, shoes, and then, horribly, their pants, underwear, shirt, and bra.  
  
And then the collar.   
  
"The owner will remove the collar, and the slave will walk into the cage," and Foggy realized sickly that this was another tactic to humiliate and dehumanize any slave that was on trial.  
  
Bee Elle swallowed as Foggy unbuckled it and whispered, "Don't worry, I got you."  
  
Then they turned and walked, each foot shaking, into the metal contraption.  
  
Foggy stared at it, almost admiring the shining steel. It should have been iron, something cold and old and dead and horrific, but instead it looked like it had been polished an hour before.  
  
Maybe it had been. Foggy could almost see it, some thin intern fussing around, making it shine like it wasn't a medieval torture device.  
  
Bee walked into it, and a bailiff locked onto them a loop of metal around their waist and up between their legs--a chastity belt, Foggy realized, feeling like he wanted to pull out a gun and shoot everyone in the fucking room that wasn't them or Matt--and then manacles at their knees, ankles, elbows, and wrists, each one padlocked on, and then something in their mouth like a horse's bit, and then a fucking gleaming dog muzzle over that, and the bailiff locked it around their face.  
  
The last thing was a collar that was locked on, and then each lock had a chain attached, and all the chains led back onto one loop at the back of the cage.  
  
The bailiff then stepped out and locked the door behind him, leaving Bee in there, naked and probably freezing, in the horrific thing.  
  
Foggy realized, wanting to laugh and cry, that it looked almost like a birdcage with its round top.  
  
Instead he cast his gaze at the panel.  
  
"The owner wishes to argue the case?" The spokesperson asked.  
  
"Me and Matt, my other slave," Foggy said, determined. "We both will argue the case."  
  
"Very well," the spokesperson nodded. "But first, we begin with a review of the slave's papers."  
  
And so it began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Matt's words about what often happens when they go through a horrible thing anyway is inspired by a quote from "Soon I Will Be Invincible".
> 
> Chapter title also comes from Jenny Holzer's "Inflammatory Essays", here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/70192289050/nevver-jenny-holzer


	72. your real job is that if you are free, you need to free somebody else. if you have some power, then your job is to empower somebody else

"Before we begin," the spokesperson said, "The slave next to the owner will kneel, as is proper."

Matt knelt, calm and graceful as a ballerina.

Foggy took a deep breath and stood next to him, controlling himself tightly.

"Very well. Now, this slave, number thirty-five nineteen seventy-eight eighteen four eleven eighteen-eighteen-eighteen, use name 'Bee Elle'--" and she said it like 'Bay Ella'. Foggy struggled to not correct her.

"--was surrendered into slavery at the estimated age of three years by the biological mother, one Jocasta Ramirez, and after intake marking her a K-Class, she was transferred to the care of the Boston Official Center for Reformation for preconditioning and pre-training care, to be followed by more conventional training when of a more pliable age.

"At the tender age of six, she rebelled noticeably by causing permanent and severe damage to the penis--" and the bailiff and two of the panelists snickered--

"To the penis of trainer Jonathan Reynolds, working name Max Hardcore. This was punished by permanent removal of the tongue as well as all baby teeth. After this incident, there was no further severe disciplinary problems, and at nine years of age she was sold to one Renee Goodman for the purposes of entertaining her children."

Foggy thought about Bee's starving face. About the cigarette burn scars he could see against the metal of the cage. About Hudson Goodman hitting Matt. He strengthened his resolve.

"Then, approximately a month or so ago, she was sold to one JBB Winter, and gifted _within the hour_ to you, Franklin Nelson, with the stipulation that she be re-conditioned by his slave, number seven-seven-seven twelve sixty six twenty-eight twenty-eight twenty-eight. After this condition was fulfilled, you filed an emancipation petition three days ago. Why? You may now state your case."

Foggy walked forward, cleared his throat, and began.

\--

Matt keeps his face calm, his body in proper position, spine straight, and half an ear on Bee Elle's body as he listens to Foggy.

They're doing okay; their heartbeat is slower than normal, hopefully because they're floating away and not experiencing syncope. He wonders vaguely a little as to what their Elsewhere is like. Matt's own varies; sometimes it's a beautiful little cottage, sometimes it's the screened-in porch of Winter's Maryland home, with the bugs singing and the rain coming down and him allowed in the rocking chair. Sometimes it's the cave where he keeps his anger, the pool deep, the marble busts immovable, the devil still there, waiting.

(Sometimes it's a church, or his bed when Dad was alive. But not often. Those places make him come back from Elsewhere with tear tracks on his face, and it's a struggle to not just go away to them forever.)

Foggy opens with a practical, rather than moral, argument: that it benefits nobody to keep Bee Elle a slave.

Matt tilts his head and listens.

"We've all heard about how slavery is the foundation of our economy. About how it's the greatest thing since slice bread, about how without it we'd never have what we have today. But it's simply not true."

"Ladies and gentlemen, look at her. From the very beginning, she's never had a chance, and she doesn't have one now, not in this legal state. She's not capable of contributing anything to society by constantly being diminished, by being starved, by being beaten and caged and treated worse than we treat dogs, by having to kneel and focus her brain on how to navigate orders and archaic protocols instead of real-world problems.

"What if within her mind is the cure for cancer? Or the next step to revolutionizing space travel? Or a brilliant solution to the problems of our national debt? How much of her potential is being held back by the chains you see her in today? I would argue, ladies and gentlemen of the panel, all of it. Every last, precious drop."

Matt is glad Foggy's not using their name. It would not help the case--it would come off as manipulative.

"She's never had a chance to fully reach or participate in society. She has an education only because Mrs Goodman deemed it necessary to give her one so that one day, she could stop her husband from continuing to sexually assault paralegals--as if that strategy would even be successful. She hasn't had any semblance of a fair chance to become the kind of person who could help us all _so much_ with her brain.

"And don't get me wrong," and Matt can tell Foggy's gesturing, walking around, his voice confident and persuasive, "I'm not saying that she's perfectly guaranteed to know some incredibly thing and I'm holding that hostage. That's not what this is about.

"This is about freedom--the freedom to make choices, the freedom to better yourself, the freedom to _try_. There's never any perfect guarantee that any person, ever, will become the next Ada Lovelace, Albert Einstein, or Sally Ride. There's never any certainty. But with freedom, there is a chance. There is potential.

"I don't know what you see before you today in this courtroom," Foggy says, voice ringing like bells. "But I can tell you that what I see is a person whose potential is being suffocated, whose opportunity to make the world a better place is being stolen from them, whose talents are being wasted.

"While enslaved, she can't help anyone. She can't make any significant positive difference in the world. But with the help of this honorable panel, she can become someone who helps create a better America and a better Earth--"

The buzzer goes off before he can say anything else, and the panel's spokesperson says, calmly, "That will be all, Mr Nelson. Your case has been noted. Next up is your slave, number fifty-five sixty-six eight-two-three ninety-four fourty-four one. Stand up and present _your_ case as well."

Matt stands up, thinking, reading the room as hard as he can.

Foggy's argument was good. It convinced five of them, he thinks, they're nodding and smiling and murmuring agreement amongst themselves--but they need eight to vote to emancipate them.

That's not enough.

Matt nods to himself, steels himself, opens his mouth, and delivers his back-up argument, the one that doesn't build off of Foggy's case at all.

 

\--

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, sirs and misses, mistresses and masters,” Matt begins, walking forward, and Foggy freezes because _what the fuck is he **doing**?_ Matt's never started off a mock-debate in Columbia like that.

“I know that you may be wondering what a slave, and a defective at that, could have to persuade you in this petition,” Matt speaks softly, beautifully, like a hymn. It's his true voice. It's _Matt_.

“And as all slaves, I have only myself to offer,” he says, spreading his arms wide.

They look confused but intrigued.

“I am slave number fifty-five sixty-six eighty-two thirty-nine four-four-four-one, with the use-name of Matt, approved by my owner. I am proof that there exist both slaves that are truly, deeply, _slaves_ and people who have been enslaved,” and his voice is silk, is absinthe.

“And I am here to tell you that the human standing in front of you, to my right, is the latter. She is a person who should be freed from her bonds, and not a slave that must be kept collared.”

There's a buzzing silence.

“I am a slave, class-M, and like all true slaves do eventually, I have come to accept and cherish in my position in society. I know what I am, and what my purpose is. I will never be freed, nor should I be. I am a slave. This collar fits me perfectly.

“I am educated. I am a study-aid, and I have a Bachelor's of Mathematics from the highest-ranked college in its region. I am attending Columbia School of Law at my owner's generosity, and may become an attorney at his privilege.

“I have read about slaves. I have studied the effects and the purposes of slavery. I have known perhaps hundreds of fellow slaves. And I can tell you with absolute certainty that this human in front of you is a person, not a slave.”

There's startled murmurs, and whispers of the word 'abolition'. Matt refutes them deftly.

“I understand the necessity of slavery. I believe in its efficacy, and I know how much our society and all we hold dear depends on it. I am _honored_ to be a part of the infrastructure of this beautiful world.

“However, as with any great system, there are errors. There are clerical mistakes, bureaucratic missteps. Someone files something wrong; a box is checked off incorrectly. In front of you today is the results of one such error: the error of the enslavement of the human being before you, who is fundamentally not a slave, but a person falsely treated as one.

“One of the first skills taught to any slave, no matter where they are trained, is the skill to recognize a person when in their presence. Despite my blindness, I too have acquired this skill from an early age. And I can assure you all, mistresses and masters, that there are _twelve_ people in this room today—this honorable panel of ten, my owner Franklin Nelson, and the human standing before you.”

There are murmurs. Foggy realizes he's holding his breath, and makes himself breathe silently. His eyes are so wide that the edges feel cold.

“I knew from the first day I met her that she was not a slave in the most inherent sense, that she could live as the person she truly was if the courts indulged her. I could not, nor could any other slave. We would be but poor facsimiles of people, able to be revealed for what we truly were at a moment's notice. I understand what a slave truly is because I am one, and I will always be one, and she is not a slave,” and Foggy wants to vomit.

But they're eating it up, he sees. Lapping at it like rabid dogs. The five who weren't charmed by Foggy are fucking _eating it up_.

“It was an understandable mistake for the system to make,” Matt says, indefinitely, ineffably gentle, “And it is quite impossible to blame anyone for making it. But this human, this person, is not a slave. Not in an existential, inherent sense.

"She is a person who wears a collar from a legal technicality, and in this beautiful land, shining from sea to sea, bountiful with fairness, freedom, liberty and justice for all, she is a person who deserves to be awarded her rightful emancipation.”

“It is your absolute belief that this is a person and not a slave?” The spokesperson asks him, canny, frowning and gesturing. Foggy wishes he knew what she was thinking behind her face.

Matt smiles and nods. “It is my objective observation that the person before you is a person, ma'am,” he says, and makes the tautology sound like a revelation, the sentence a sermon.

“The differences between me and her are more than sufficient evidence. One only needs to see how she walked to the cage with trembling feet and yet I knelt with a gladness in my heart to understand that she is a person who deserves her rightful freedom and I am not. It is the truth.

“Slaves must be kept in their place, and persons must be given their rights and the generosity to exercise them. That is the premise of this great land, the foundation upon which our society, our laws, are built. And if the honorable panel will look before them and see the person in front of them, it will become apparent what the law demands be done.”

Then Matt smiles and switches gears a little.

“This person before you remains one even after being enslaved at the earliest of ages. She is independent. She is autonomous. She is self-reliant. She is a thinking, living being, sentient and sapient, only falsely collared.

“No early pre-kindergarten conditioning fully worked on her because conditioning works on slaves, and not people. Her act of early seeming-defiance was the action of a person, not a slave. Her very _self_ is that of a subject, not an object.

“She is a person, not a slave, and this honorable panel will no doubt execute the decision to uphold justice, fix this mistake, and serve this country—”

The timer buzzes. Foggy stares at Matt as he comes over and elegantly kneels again next to him.

The panel murmurs to each other, and then it's time to vote.

As they begin to vote, and the bailiff collects the votes, Foggy reaches out and stroke's Matt's hair in the familiar gesture of support they've started to use sometimes.

Matt presses his head into Foggy's thigh hard. The rest of his body is serene and confident. He looks like some sort of saint.

The panel's votes are read out.

Their eyes widen and they near-audibly gasp through the gag and muzzle as the verdict is read.

Ten out of the ten have voted to emancipate Bee Elle.

“Congratulations, young lady,” the panel's spokesperson says, grandmotherly. “You're free to go.”

The bailiff unlocks the chains, the manacles, the belt, the muzzle, the bit, and the collar, and Bee Elle stands stiff for a second and then turns and runs out, yanking on their clothes and boots so fast they almost trip, and then they sprint over to Foggy, and tackle him in a hug, the first time they've ever touched him.

He hugs them back, and feels enveloped with joy.

Matt's also smiling hugely, and they reach out—

And they grab his coat and throw it over him and hug him too, tightly and firmly, rocking in place with him, jumping up and down, only directly touching the wool.

Foggy doesn't know what it means, but then Matt ducks his head and Foggy can't feel anything but pure and utter happiness, the triumph of it so intense that as they all get up and get their coats, his face almost aches from smiling.

The three of them go out as one unit, Bee Elle hugging Foggy every few seconds, hands forming over and over again the sign for 'thanks', face full of glory, tapping furiously on Matt's arm.

Matt's smiling too, and as all of them get out of the courthouse proper, he voices quietly, “I believe there's still paperwork for many matters,” but he doesn't look worried at all.

Foggy feels like he's been torn in half with a lightning bolt of warmth. The whole world is so much more beautiful. Every color is suddenly at its zenith, every sight worthy of singing. The birds sound like they're dancing with glee.

“I fear no bureaucracy,” he declares, and they all laugh, Bee Elle's tiny squeaks audible in the fresh winter air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a quote from Toni Morrison.


	73. with distant burdens and a glittering “me,”

The rest of the paperwork is tedious and yet exciting; they get to choose their name--Bee Elle, Bee as first and Elle as last, not Ramirez, fuck that cunt, fuck her with a fucking syphilitic barnacle--and they get to have a notice of a social security number (which sounds just like a slave number but apparently isn't) and a state ID card coming in the mail in a few weeks. Their paperwork is being translated into normal medical and state information, too, and they'll get it in a couple of weeks as well.  
  
Foggy also helps them email a woman at the Disability Services Office at Columbia. It wasn't the woman Bee had ended up being helped by--that was Shoshanna, who was irritatingly sweet--and she emails back straight away that she'll help Bee apply for scholarships.   
  
There's also an application for the unemployment benefits program they're entitled to get seven months of compensation from. They read over the paper and frown; the monthly stipend has the condition attached that every last penny of it has to be spent every month, which, as Foggy's mother also explains, means that they can't save up any money from it.   
  
And after the first seven months, they have to show 'noticeable signs of job-seeking' and do 'seminars' to be a 'productive citizen'. And they don't know where they're going to live, or how to open bank accounts, or what to do with themselves, except going to Columbia and maybe becoming a lawyer for real.  
  
But they refuse to worry about it at all. They're floating, not in Elsewhere, but like they're walking on magic slippers, a few feet above the scabbed gutters. They're _free_. They're fucking _free_ , like they never before thought they would be until a mere three days ago.   
  
(And they don't have to cut their throat now. No shoving in a chef's knife and yanking it back out for maximum chance of death.)  
  
Foggy says he'll give them all their things--clothes and books and bedding and even the cans of the supplement and the vitamin jars--and, incredibly, even tries to give them the entirety of the $35,000 on top of the full tuition he was given, in addition to them, when Summer's creepy owner gifted them.  
  
"No," they say through the tablet (that's _theirs_ and not Foggy's), feeling an electric thrill. "No, keep half of it for Matt. I get all the tuition, but I don't need all the rest. Just half."  
  
Foggy blinks. "You're sure?"  
  
They glance at the kitchen, where Matt is making cupcakes. He had made some vague request to Foggy about wanting to try out rose and saffron buttercream frosting with a pistachio and cardamom cupcake, and Foggy had said that of course he could use it, and Foggy's parents had also confirmed it, and Matt hadn't re-emerged since then.  
  
Matt was so unbelievably sweet, so good. He had won over half the judges, and Foggy had gotten the rest. They're going to never not be grateful for that. He's a dickhead, and difficult to like, but he had shown up for them, first when they were starving to death and then now.  
  
They understand, though, how he must be feeling, and appreciate that he's keeping away from them so as not to let the jealousy show.   
  
"I'm sure," they say firmly, read to fight.  
  
But Foggy pauses, and then Foggy's mother says mildly, "Dear, why not put it all in a contract?"  
  
They blink, and poise their fingers to explain that they can't sign a contract, they're a slave--  
  
But they're not. They're a person--a _free_ person. They can sign any damn contract they please.  
  
They grin and nod and review the contract five times, and sign it, smiling furiously.  
  
Things are going to be okay.  
  
\--  
  
After Anna volunteers to help Bee find a place to stay after the break's over--"Of course you can stay here, or at Foggy's apartment," she'd said mildly. "Of course. We're happy to help,"--Foggy goes to check on Matt.  
  
Matt is throwing away something into the trash, furiously scraping out a bowl.  
  
Foggy blinks at the intensity of how he's doing it, and clears his throat after Matt's put it in the sink to wash it out.  
  
Matt immediately kneels at the startle, and then forces himself to stand up again with visible effort.  
  
It's not a good day for him, then.  
  
"Hey," Foggy said gently. "You okay?"  
  
Foggy hadn't really considered it beforehand, because he was apparently a total moron when it came to Matt--possibly as a side-effect of being in love with him--but it had seemed obvious, once they'd come back home and eaten box mac'n'cheese with bacon, grinning, and the high had faded a little, that Matt might not be all rainbows and puppies about watching another person get what he could never have, ever.  
  
That, and the crux of his argument had been, essentially, 'I'm an object but Bee's not, and slavery is okay for slaves but Bee's not a slave so they should be freed', so obviously he wasn't doing as well as he could have been.   
  
(But wasn't it progress, of a kind, to have Matt thinking that slavery wasn't perfect? That it could make mistakes?)  
  
"I'm alright, Foggy," Matt said, furiously measuring out butter and what looked like pink syrup.  
  
"You sure?"  
  
Matt paused, and admitted, mildly afraid-looking, "The frosting is more difficult than it should be. I keep getting the ratio of rose to cream wrong, and I don't know why. I have to do things _right_."  
  
He sounded incredibly upset, and very clearly not all about the frosting, and Foggy made an executive decision.  
  
"Okay," Foggy said. "Well, Bee wants to stay here for a while, and I was going to go back and get all their stuff so that they didn't have to ferry back and forth between our places, did you want to come and carry stuff to Anna's car that she's letting me take?"  
  
Matt blinked. "The--could I please come? And possibly try again with the frosting later? The cakes themselves are quite perfect. They behaved for me."  
  
Foggy smiled at how ridiculously cute Matt sounded and looked right then. There was a smear of frosting on Matt's nose that he clearly didn't notice, and Foggy wanted to kiss it off--  
  
And flinched back. No. No thoughts like that, Nelson, that shit is dangerous.  
  
"Yep," Foggy said, and Matt smiled, pleased, and then they went.  
  
\--  
  
When they got home, Foggy paused and said, "Hey, Matt, why don't you take some you-time, make yourself feel better?"  
  
Matt nodded and headed towards the bedroom. Foggy grabbed the storage boxes he had, and started to pack. Thank God for Candace's weird talent for packing things and her deigning to teach him it.  
  
Once Foggy came back into the bedroom, though, to see if Matt was fine, what he saw made him tilt his head.  
  
Matt was kneeling on the carpeted floor, eyelids fluttering, saying something quiet in French to himself, hands laid ritually flat on his thighs.  
  
"Hey," Foggy interrupted gently, "Hey, Matt, you with me?"  
  
Matt tilted his head and turned his face up. Foggy had gotten used to the way Matt tried to precisely point his face at you but never could really meet your gaze. "Yes, Foggy," he said.  
  
Foggy opened his mouth to ask what he had been saying--  
  
And stopped. No. That was Matt's business. He had to stop prying.  
  
"You okay? Really?"  
  
Matt wordlessly leaned into Foggy's legs, asking to be petted. Foggy had discovered that apparently Matt just really, really liked it sometimes, and as weird as it was, it made him happy, so Foggy did it once or twice, when Matt started it.  
  
Foggy ran his fingers through Matt's cornsilk-soft hair. "You're okay with this? It's not upsetting you? I don't want to anything that upsets you,” and Matt nodded.   
  
“You know it's fine if you're not over the moon, right?" Foggy asked. "Seriously, I didn't really think it through, but I'd be kinda jealous too."  
  
Matt's face flickered with anger but then it was gone too fast, and he turned and buried his face into Foggy's thighs, not quite nuzzling, but wordlessly asking for more affection all the same.  
  
"It's okay, shh, it's okay," Foggy tried to soothe, feeling more and more uncomfortably like an owner soothing a scared slave, probably because he was one, wasn't he.   
"No sex and no selling and no punishments, shh," and Matt breathed in harshly at that.  
  
They were like that for a while, and then Foggy gently squatted down and hugged Matt, who was now breathing in slow and deep.  
  
"Better?" Foggy asked.  
  
Matt nodded.  
  
"Is there anything you want to do over break?" Foggy asked, it occurring to him that Matt might get bored or overwhelmed with all the Nelson Family Things.  
  
Matt hesitantly asked, "There are a couple of books I'd like to read, please, Foggy, if that's okay?" and Foggy smiled.   
  
"Cool, early Christmas present, I'll get them for you, why don't you email me them at home, and then maybe make an actual Amazon wishlist too? I mean, I don't know what else to get you for Christmas..."  
  
Matt smiled and ducked his head. "Of course. Thank you, Foggy," and it was pretty nice, all in all.  
  
Then they went back with Bee's things, and helped put it all in the guest room--and now that Bee wasn't scared of it, they could use it—and Matt did email him.  
  
(Foggy thought it was a little weird how they insisted everything go in the closet that wasn't clothes, but did it anyway.)  
  
Then Foggy went on to see the names of the books and order them for Matt.  
  
There were two of them, some book called _The Plum in the Golden Vase_ , okay, that was pretty normal, and-- was that _Fifty Shades of Gray_? What the fuck?  
  
Foggy stared at it and shook himself. He would ask Matt what he could possibly like about that abusive piece of misogynistic pro-slavery trash when it came there. Or not, he already dreaded the answer.  
  
When he was checking out, Amazon advertised a sale on a different book, the only similarity being that all three were in Braille, and since it was a huge sale (eighty percent off, making it four dollars) and even Amazon didn't have that many Braille books, Foggy shrugged his shoulders and got it.  
  
It was called _The Collected Writings of Thurgood Marshall_. Foggy wondered what it was about, who this Marshall guy was.  
  
\--  
  
When Candace came home with a small animal heartbeat next to her, Matt perked up a little from where he was in the kitchen.  
  
Now that Foggy had helped him calm down--and he felt a low warmth in his limbs because of that, Foggy really was so sweet, and being a doll had its benefits if he could be soothed like that--Matt was looking forward to the rest of the night.   
  
He'd fixed the frosting now that he could focus on what was real, and not the low, pounding fear of his own jealousy or his wish that he could still be friends with Bee Elle the same way he had been, and things were going better.  
  
Candace opened up the carrier, and a huge cat came out, grumpy and meowing high and annoyed.  
  
The cat started to explore everywhere, and escaped the delighted coos and fussing by the Nelsons and came over to Matt.  
  
"Hallo," Matt politely greeted the cat. "Wie geht es Ihnen?" _How are you?_  
  
The cat sniffed him, and immediately sat its large, fat weight on his feet.  
  
Matt blinked. "(Sorry, Mister Cat)," he said, still in German. It seemed appropriate for this particular cat. "(But I have to move my feet to finish frosting these cupcakes.)"  
  
The cat mrowled loudly and obstinately sat there. Matt smiled at him against his will.   
  
"Oh my god, he likes you!" Candace squealed, walking in. "That's so cute."  
  
"He is very warm," Matt said delicately.  
  
"Oh yes. But oh my gosh, he must be squishing your feet, let me--" and she scooped up the large cat. "Come here, Caligula, it's time to go see my room and let Matt be, handsome as he is," and Matt had the uncomfortable feeling of being looked at up and down as she swept out of the kitchen and carried the irritably mrowling cat up the stairs.  
  
He finished the cupcakes, piping carefully, according to his calculations after feeling how big the end of the pastry bag and the top of the cupcakes were.   
  
Later that night, after a dinner of 'celebratory' McDonald's, during which Caligula attempted to steal all of Candace's chicken nuggets, everyone said they liked the cupcakes very much, including Bee, which made Matt snort and gently elbow their ribs back, and then he froze.  
  
"I'm sorry, Foggy--" he started, and then Foggy made the noise that meant it was all okay, and he stopped.  
  
Late that night, curled up on the couch (and it still stung a bit, to not be in his owner's bed), Matt smiled to himself. Maybe it was just people who Foggy thought of as competing with him that Foggy didn't want to touch Matt.   
  
He sighed and slung an elbow over his face. He knew he was still missing something there, but he couldn't quite grasp _what_ , and it upset him. He hated feeling like he was stupid.  
  
Matt's musing were interrupted by Caligula, who climbed on top of his stomach, lay flat as a pancake, and purred loudly. Matt gave in and petted him gently.  
  
Maybe things would be better now that Bee Elle was free. Maybe Foggy really would be even more affectionate and sweet to Matt now that he wasn't on the crusade to free them.  
  
That, and Foggy was beginning therapy tomorrow, and Matt had his orders to make an Amazon wishlist the next day, and Foggy had told him during dinner that he'd ordered the books for express delivery, which had made Matt blush as he realized that Foggy had gotten actual, paper books in Braille (most likely, Foggy didn't seem the type to forget he was defective) and not just e-books. Really, Matt was starting to feel incredibly fond of his owner, who was so strange, but now that he was appreciating Matt properly, Matt appreciated him too.  
  
Matt fell asleep with a huge fat cat on his stomach, warmed inside and out. He dreamed of nothing at all except someone squeezing his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also comes from Molly Peacock's "Putting Down A Burden".


	74. an outdoors so full of air it leaves you breathless, there’s so much to breathe

The morning after the draining case, Foggy had six therapy appointments.

He'd decided to try out all the closest, most hopeful prospects all on the same day. He had had the feeling that most of them would be too unbearably dickish about Matt, and he wasn't willing to waste his time.

Foggy triple checked that he had everything, including a notebook with which to take notes, and he went.

The first one, ten minutes from his apartment, he walked in and out in about five minutes. The therapist had been a gently smiling man who inexplicably smelled like AXE, and the very first thing he'd said was, "In your form, you explained that you were having trouble balancing disciplining your slave? This can be easily solved by hiring a trainer--"

The second one, further from the apartment, Foggy stayed for about fifteen minutes. The therapist was a man again, with combed-over dark hair, but this time, he'd made soothing small talk, and Foggy had relaxed a little.

"So you explained that you're trying to help your slave and feeling burned out?"

Foggy nodded, waiting. Anticipatory.

"Well, have you considered selling it if it's so much trouble? I think there can be a simple solution here--"

Foggy got up and walked out without a single regret.

The third one was a woman, and Foggy stayed half an hour into the hour-long scheduled appointment.

"So you've explained that you're having a lot of trouble balancing helping your new slave settle in and your own life?"

Foggy nodded. "Yeah. It's not his fault, but yeah, completely."

She wrote that down, her red hair shining in the sunlight through her window. She had a very nice office.

"Alright, so. What sort of methods are you using? I'm also a trainer as well as a psychologist; there's a surprising amount of overlap."

Foggy stared at her.

"Are you using punishment-based training? Fear? Cage training? Sensory deprivation?"

" _Fuck_ no," Foggy snapped. "No, he's just fucked up and I'm trying to help him." Then he immediately cringed at those words. Matt _was_ fucked up--beyond fucked up, he was on the crazy train all the way past Pluto--but it still felt like an asshole thing to say.

"Look," Foggy said calmly, "I'm here because I'm overstressed and it's not good for me. I'm not going to suddenly start being a dick to Matt."

She studied him, and nodded thoughtfully. "I see. Well, in my professional opinion, I'd say you're suffering from overempathy."

"Isn't it a bit early to be making diagnoses?"

"It's not a diagnosis, it's an observation," she said gently. "It's normal for first-time slave-owners to have some secondary distress over their slaves. It's perfectly logical: you don't understand yet that disciplinary measures are important and healthy for the treatment of a slave. They need to have a firmer hand than I think you're giving it. We can work on that together."

Foggy stood up and left.

The fourth one was an Albus Dumbledore-esque man, and Foggy stayed for the entire forty-five minutes, even laughing a bit at his bad jokes but at the end, he gave Foggy a set of pamphlets to read for the next time about how to create a system of rewards and punishments to ensure that your slave stopped showing distress if it upset you, so Foggy wasn't going back.

The fifth one was a beautiful woman. Foggy walked in, and she looked just too much like Summer. He couldn't stand to be near her. He immediately turned and left without saying a word.

The sixth one was the charm. Foggy walked in, frazzled from all the others, and snapped out, "If you're going to tell me to start being a piece of shit to Matt just because he's legally my slave, tell me now, because I'd rather not waste another minute."

The therapist blinked. She was a woman, too, and had sleek box braids in gold and silver and black against her blazer. She said, crisply, "I'm happy to work with clients of all political views."

Foggy exhaled and sat down. "So," he asked skeptically, "You're _not_ going to try to convince me to use 'cage training' or some stupid evil shit like that?"

"I find that whatever my own private political views are, it's still my job as a therapist to help my clients without attempting to force them to change their own," she said, matter-of-fact.

Foggy sagged against the couch. It was very comfortable.

"Sorry," he said, suddenly embarrassed by his snapping, facepalming. "I just--yeah. Lots of people are just dicks."

"Mmm," she agreed. "Now did you want to start by getting to know each other a bit better, or diving directly into business?"

Foggy paused. "Uh--the first one."

"Okay," she said. "Hi, I'm Dr Miriam Florentine. You can call me Miriam, if that makes you feel any more comfortable. I specialize in depression, anxiety, and general over-stress, and I'm happy to work with you in many different ways.

"We can do more conventional talk therapy, exposure therapy, and a few other specific types of therapy, and I can also recommend you to Dr Vanisk, the psychiatrist I partner with for clients that have an interest in medication. I'm fifty-seven years old, I have a doctorate in psychology as well as a medical degree from Stanford, and like brewing my own beer in my free time."

Foggy breathed in and out. "I'm Foggy," he said. "Um, Foggy Nelson. I'm a law student at Columbia, and I like...law school. Wow. That sounds way stupider out loud."

"It's fine," Miriam said, composed and yet not snooty at all. "Now, what seems to be your reason for coming to therapy? What do you want to get out of it?"

Foggy took a deep breath in--

And thought hard. What _did_ he want from it? To stop being so stressed. To get back to being calmer, so Matt could calm down. Maybe to learn things to share with Matt about how to cope better, and have somebody to vent to about him so that none of his resentment spilled over.

Hell, if Miriam was really good, maybe even she could help him stay accountable, be absolutely sure he never hurt Matt again like he had with sex.

Foggy swallowed and pushed away at the guilt. He couldn't go back and change things. He just had to live with what he had done.

He also thought about whether he could trust her. Well, Anna had put her on her list of recommendations, and she had a great rating on ratemyshrink. That, and she really did seem competent and calm and not a horrifying person.

(And Foggy was very, very desperate. He knew he needed help with this shitshow.)

"I have this slave, Matt, and he's..." Foggy tried to think of a way to put it. "I didn't know, really, how bad slavery was and what it did to people until I got Matt--and really got to know him. And I want to help him, I have to help him, what else could I possibly _do_ , and, and I need to make sure he's safe and happy and maybe even help him come out of his shell of self-loathing craziness, and it's so hard.

"I feel like...like I'm that guy who has to push the rock up the hill every day, except then it just rolls back down and I can't stop."

Miriam offered him a box of tissues. "I want to say, before you continue," she said gently, "That I have a policy in this office. What you say here stays safe and private with me, and I won't judge you. I also won't tell you what to do.

"All I'm here to do is be a safe person to talk to and to give you advice. You can always leave it if you don't want to take it, or you think it won't be helpful, for for any other reason. And you don't have to tell me anything if you'd rather not."

Foggy smiled weakly. "Thanks. I just...it's a huge weight on me, and I can't afford to have a nervous breakdown. I don't know how to deal with this, not really, I'm flying blind."

"Okay," Miriam said calmly. "Would you like to tell me some more about Matt and how you got him, and then maybe before you leave I could offer you some general advice and strategies on self-care, so that between this and our next appointment, you could start to cope better and reduce the stress?"

Foggy blew his nose. He hadn't even realized he was crying a tiny bit. It was just overwhelming, the weight of the horrors he'd seen, the way that it all felt like it was futile.

"Well," he said slowly, "I didn't go out and buy him or anything, my bio-mom Rosalind got really happy that I was going to law school, to Columbia, just like she had, so she showed up at my birthday brunch, at my fucking favorite diner, with this guy--Matt--I didn't even think he was a slave at first," he blurted out.

"I thought maybe he was a new PA of hers, she has those, and then I noticed the collar and she told him to fucking--strip--and he just _did_ right there, and he had ribbons all over him and bows and shit and then she made him kneel in front of me and suck on my fingers and she talked about raping him like she had taken a car for me around the fucking block--"

Foggy took several deep, ragged breaths. He hadn't realized just how much it had affected him.

"And, and I never was going to be a part of slavery, anybody with a fucking brain knows it's a bad idea, but what the hell else was I gonna do, just leave him there? Let Rosalind keep the guy and do more horrible things to him? So, so I had to, uh, say those _fucking_ words--do you know what they are?"

"I'm familiar," Miriam said, nodding.

"Well, and then I was so freaked out by him, this guy, who seemed like some sort of sexbot--" Foggy cringed hard at himself. Fuck.

"It's okay," Miriam reassured him. "It's fine. Nothing you say leaves this office. I won't judge you for anything you say."

"Thanks, I guess," Foggy said, and continued.

\--

By the end of the forty-five minutes, he'd gotten up to how he'd thought things were getting better after Matt had a crying meltdown because Foggy had been an asshole to him unknowingly for over a month, and Foggy already felt better. It was a bit like squeezing a zit until it popped; it hurt, but then afterwards it was gone, and you could just deal with it.

Miriam had promised to send him a link to a good set of online resources for 'self-care', and Foggy had made another appointment for three days later. God, he was just happy his insurance would pay for it.

He got home and saw that there were the books already on the front step for Matt.

"Hey, Matt," he said. "Books for you!" Foggy called as he opened the package.

Matt came over from the living room, his laptop open, the screen to some sort of podcast.

"Thank you so much, Foggy," Matt said, sounding genuinely enthused, and he bent and kissed both Foggy's hands around the books before taking them.

Foggy saw Candace staring at him in confused horror and made the 'stop' gesture before she said anything. No need to go over it all again.

Foggy then went upstairs, telling Matt to get him or come up if he wanted anything at any time, and flumped onto his childhood bed, savoring it for a few minutes before he pulled out his own laptop and started to read about self-care.

A lot of it sounded like excuses to pamper yourself, but that was fine. Foggy grinned as an idea came to him: he'd get Matt a similarly nice thing every time _he_ got a really nice thing, and that way, he'd never feel guilty but he'd also take better care of himself.

He had to take better care of himself. Matt needed him.

\--

Matt stopped the lovely podcast about the friendly desert town with the screams and the slaves that he'd rediscovered since the beginning of the semester, and read the titles of the books, of which there were, worringly, _three_.

The third one must have just been from Foggy in general, which meant Matt should read it first as a priority.

Matt read the cover, curling up, made sure that he'd sent the link to the tentative wishlist he had created with much anxiety, and sent his laptop to sleep mode.

_The Collected Writings of Thurgood Marshall_ , the book was called. Matt frowned to himself; where had he heard the name before?

Well, he could muse on it later. He opened it up and prepared to read it at his owner's request.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also comes from Molly Peacock's "Putting A Burden Down".


	75. this is how you smile to someone you like completely

 

Reading Thurgood Marshall was a little like being whipped, but in a good way.

Matt read it over and over again, only a tenth of the way through. The words echoed in his head obsessively, ricocheting off his ribs: _Democracy just cannot flourish amid fear. Liberty cannot bloom amid hate. Justice cannot take root amid rage. America must get to work. In the chill climate in which we live, we must go against the prevailing wind. We must dissent from the indifference. We must dissent from the apathy. We must dissent from the fear, the hatred and the mistrust._

All of that brilliance, just from a speech elaborating on his dissent from a decision to uphold the law that allowed any guardian to surrender their children into slavery.

Matt could hardly believe it. His whole body was on fire, his thoughts racing and vivid. He had learned something incredible _already_.

He understood in total why he'd never read him before, why books of his were apparently incredibly rare or only printed in Braille and available online, why his writings were suppressed.

Thurgood Marshall had some of the best arguments for abolition that Matt had ever heard of.

Of course, he'd read others before in his life, mostly to see them calmly torn to shreds. He'd even had to write a paper before, arguing that slavery was not just necessary but beneficial to the world as a whole.

(He'd written nine flawless pages and gotten a ninety-four and Winter had gotten him ice cream and let him sit on his lap at the next fancy party. Matt _knew_ it was a test of his loyalty.)

But Thurgood Marshall's writings didn't just help Matt understand why he was suppressed and not talked about. They helped Matt understand the entire idea of abolition in general.

Marshall's argument wasn't based off of the same arguments that Matt was used to, or to economic or probabilistic arguments. It didn't use religion, either. There wasn't any fearmongering or what-ifs or the clumsy wielding of sci-fi. It never dissolved into tears or 'just because', and it definitely wasn't about the kind of pity porn that twitterpated twat Devyn had favored.

Fundamental abolitionism, as Thurgood Marshall forcefully argued for it, was a system that rested on _axioms._

It was a whole ideology that arose from a few axioms all together: all humans were people, all people were equal, and it was the job of all people to take care of all people. All the rest was built on those, and Marshall's words made those seem almost obviously true. He wrote like a prophet.

And Matt realized with the sensation of executing a perfect flip-spin-kick that _that_ was what was different between he and Foggy. Matt worked from a set of different axioms about not just himself or slavery but _the entire world_.

No wonder he had so many problems understanding Foggy. He wasn't stupid at all--just like his trainers had always told him. He was just working in the wrong system with the wrong assumptions, and Foggy had tried to logically argue the axioms to him, as if axioms were theorems, instead of just saying, _here is the basis of my worldview_.

It was as if Matt had been trying to solve problems set forth in hyperbolic geometry with Euclidean rules and was angry that all his answers were coming out wrong. Now things made so much more sense. Foggy's reactions to things--well, most of them--now seemed almost inevitable.

The only problem that was left was how to convey to Foggy that while his system of axioms--if Foggy's own morality was the same as Thurgood Marshall's, which it probably wasn't exactly--was something Matt could learn, it wasn't something he could live in.

Ideals were ideals, and in dreams you could be free, but this was the real world. Thurgood Marshall advocated for a certain kind of world--a veritable utopia--but he hadn't gotten it to come about yet.

Matt bit his lip. Maybe, just maybe, if he was _happier_ for Foggy? Not necessarily pretending to be--Foggy had cried at the offer, Matt remembered, cringing at himself--but if he helped indulge himself, made himself show more of his pleasure at being owned by Foggy, was more cuddly and pleasant to be around. If what really made Foggy be happy, Matt would be happy, and being happy made anyone like anything.

Caligula interrupted his train of thought then, coming back from eating dry food and sprawling next to him, radiating warmth, demanding to be petted. Matt liked the cat; he was large and got what he wanted and nothing less.

Matt smiled at himself. Well, being happy for Foggy would be easier now that he wasn't so confused by him, and he was going to therapy, and Matt was secure enough in his position that he could feel how fond he was of Foggy, now.

He really did like Foggy. He was funny, and warm, and very nice to be touched by now that there wasn't any sex, and even when there had been sex it had been awful but not worse than being whipped, and really did care about Matt like a person, even though Matt wasn't.

Matt pulled the blanket on his legs up a bit, and settled back to read more of Foggy's present to him. He'd tell Foggy that he understood more of how he thought, when it became necessary.

\--

Foggy made himself open up the wishlist Matt had sent him, and tilted his head.

There was a water bottle, and a few spices, and a couple of blankets, but mostly forms of candy or chocolates. Foggy then realized that he was viewing it by lowest-price only, and switched to priority, and then regretted it.

On the very top was a kneeling cushion.

It was silk-lined and dark red and looked surprisingly comfortable, and was thirty-five dollars, and Foggy put his head in his hands.

Then he went back to his email and saw the link to self-care resources and tutorials, and focused on those instead.

Then he formulated a plan.

As he came down the stairs to the cry of 'dinner's foraging tonight!' by Anna, he spotted Matt, shaking out his hands.

"Read too much?" Foggy asked idly as he got himself leftover bubble and squeak from before the break had started.

"He's so fascinating," Matt blurted out, sounding like a teenager with their first crush. "I just--Foggy, I get it now, I understand it so much better, his rhetoric is excellent--thank you so very much for getting it for me--" and Matt leaned forward and _hugged_ Foggy tightly, kissing his hands.

Foggy blinked and hugged Matt back, cutting off the kisses before anyone saw and came to yell at him. "You're welcome," Foggy said. "Tell me about it when you're finished?" because he wanted to talk to Matt about the self-care day he'd thought they could do tomorrow.

Before they went up, though, Foggy went and grabbed himself a bottle of something Candace had labeled as 'when in need of alcohol', because Matt's wishlist made him need to drink a bit.

\--

Foggy was drinking as he and Matt went up to his room, and Matt made himself stay loose-limbed and happy. Foggy wanted a happy doll, not a distressed one, and besides, nothing bad would probably happen. The last time Foggy had gotten drunk, he'd cuddled Matt and Matt had gotten to sleep in his owner's bed. That was all.

"So," Foggy said, eating. Matt made his own plate of peppers and hummus stay on his lap. "My therapist thinks I should do more self-care."

Matt tilted his head.

"And, like, I like it when you also get nice things," Foggy explained. "So I figured that we could have a treat yo'self day tomorrow, and," he took another chug of the alcohol that smelled very, very strong to Matt's nose, making it itch, "For that, I think we should do some retail therapy. But, but, dealing with those shop people is hellish for both of us--"

Well, not so much for Matt, he didn't mind it, but he wasn't about to argue.

"--so I have to ask you to wear a scarf over your collar tomorrow when we go to Lush and Target and wherever, okay?"

Matt flinched a bit, involuntarily. He opened his mouth and shut it again.

"Matt? What's scaring you about that idea?"

Direct order, answer. Foggy likes honesty. "I don't want to know what anyone would do if they found out I wasn't a free person and they thought I had tricked them into thinking it, it," and Matt grasped at the words, "Trying to hide your slave status is nerve-wracking and near-impossible and it's, the consequences can be...egregiously harsh."

Foggy held open his arms, booze on his breath. Matt obeyed, putting his plate next to Foggy's on the desk, coming over and immediately being cuddled.

"Hey," Foggy said, snuggling up to him. "I know that's scary. Do you think if we stick very tightly together and if anyone asks I made you keep that scarf on, that that wouldn't be as bad? I just don't want anybody to be a dehumanizing asshole to you while we're trying to get face masks and shit."

Matt blinked. "I'm happy to obey your orders, Foggy," he said, and then remembered what he'd vowed to do for his owner earlier. "I can, I imagine that if anyone asks, their response to that reasoning would be to wonder why you wanted me to keep the scarf on."

Foggy hmmed. "What would be a reason those evil assholes would accept?"

Matt thought about it. "If the scarf was tight but it was the rabbit-fur collar, perhaps that you wanted me to know my place even more? Or you just think it looks more attractive that way, Foggy?"

Owners got away with rather a lot by pointing out how much prettier any given slave looked with the regulations bent. Slaves could be near-naked in restaurants, for example, and despite it occasionally violating health codes, if the slave was said to look better in very little than nobody really complained.

Foggy made an angry noise and clutched him tighter. Matt waited to see what would happen, and his tentative hypothesis came true: Foggy just calmed himself down.

"You're warm," Foggy mumbled into his neck. Matt made himself limp and relaxed, the words he'd said yesterday reminding him, _it's not appropriate or acceptable behavior to let your like or dislike of something get in the way of serving your owner_. Even if he'd rather Foggy not put his face in his neck--too much of a temptation for kissing, Matt knew his body inspired covetousness--he would be good for Foggy.

But then Foggy just said, "I'm sorry people are such dicks to you," and sat up, and drank the rest of the alcohol. "Wanna sleep here tonight? All-nighter cuddle party?" It came out slurred.

Matt smiled. "Yes, Foggy," he said, feeling over the moon, secure and safe and finally, truly, with a generous owner he mostly understood.

Foggy whooped and stood up, now very drunk. "Then let's do that," he said, and Matt obediently went to go get his pajamas from the bag in the corner of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Jamaica Kincaid's "Girl", here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/135395278768/wash-the-white-clothes-on-monday-and-put-them-on


	76. in a perfect garden there is order, but in wild places there is growth

Foggy woke up cuddling Matt, with another hangover.  
  
For one horrible second, he wondered if everything that had happened that night before the semester began was just some dream, and then he realized that no, this was just deja vu.  
  
And then he realized that his dick was hard and digging into Matt's hip.  
  
Foggy was tempted to immediately scramble out of bed at that, get up and get far away from Matt so he couldn't hurt him, but then Matt murmured--probably woken up by his racing heartbeat--"Good morning, Foggy."  
  
Foggy swallowed, and said, "Morning, Matt."  
  
He forced himself to look down, and both he and Matt were in pajamas. Both of them were _dressed_ fully, thank god, and Matt didn't seem scared or tense. His toes were curled up halfway, but his feet weren't shaking.  
  
"Ughh," Foggy groaned, rolling over, one arm shielding his face from the sunlight. "Ugh, oh god, what even happened?"  
  
"Nothing eventful, Foggy," Matt said, eyes still closed. "You declared an all-night cuddle party, and we eventually fell asleep."  
  
"So, uh, no sex?" Foggy asked, hoping against hope.  
  
"No sex," Matt confirmed, sounding sleepy still. "The most you did was, mmm, move against me a bit before you woke up," and he sounded completely unbothered by that.  
  
Foggy groaned again and facepalmed himself. God, what did Matt think of him?  
  
"No sex," Foggy promised him. "Ever."  
  
Matt said, voice soft and not afraid, "Yes, Foggy," and there was an unspoken _but_ there, he could hear it now that he knew Matt better than he used to.  
  
"But?" Foggy asked.  
  
Matt paused, and then said, "I wouldn't mind it too much," he said slowly. "Not if...not if it wasn't the same as before, Foggy, it wouldn't be as bad."  
  
Foggy breathed in and out slowly. He felt like they were at the edge of a precipice. "I don't think I'm understanding you."  
  
Matt shifted minutely, catlike, and continued. "One of the reasons it was so unpleasant was that I had to be...active. And pretend to enjoy something I didn't. If you wanted to have sex with me _now_ , where I could just lie back and obey...it wouldn't be so bad."  
  
Foggy stared at him. "You said that it was worse than having your fingernails ripped out."  
  
"It is--" Matt bit his lip, and then continued, sounding desperate, "But I--half the point of being a slave is enduring horrible, horrible things for your owner, and then afterward being rewarded, and knowing that you're strong enough to obey no matter how much you don't want to. And I would stop perceiving it as so awful if you did it regularly, I'd get used to it again, Foggy."  
  
Foggy...couldn't. He absolutely couldn't.  
  
"And that's why we're never having sex again," Foggy promised him. "Never ever. Not at all. You don't have to get _used to being raped_."  
  
Something in Matt's face tightened and then he made himself relax again, going still. "Of course, Foggy," he said.  
  
Foggy knew, at this point, that pushing harder wouldn't result in anything good. "Anyway," Foggy said, sitting up, "Let's get some BLTs and go treat ourselves. We deserve it."  
  
Matt smiled and ducked his head. "Yes, Foggy," he said.

\--

Matt lay in Foggy's bed, eyes still closed, while Foggy showered.  
  
He knew he should get up and go get dressed and ready, or start coffee and make the BLTs--a part of him was wondering if Foggy liked plain mayonnaise or the kind with sriracha swirled in--but it was so nice to be in his owner's bed. He savored it, the press of the blankets, the warmth.   
  
It was a small space, and it was promising that Foggy was letting him there, even if it was solely with the help of intoxicants. He'd muttered to Matt, and read on his phone for a while, giggling periodically, and told Matt he was pretty and warm and snuggly and deserved " _all_ the nice things, every nice thing in the whole world," and fallen asleep holding him.  
  
It was so sweet. Matt let himself listen to the patter of Foggy's shower and feel the blankets.   
  
Sleeping in his owner's bed felt _right_ , felt good, and time slipped a little bit lying there, remembering all the other owner's beds he'd slept in, nostalgia like stale bread in his stomach.  
  
Mistress Sharon and her pet curled into him; Mistress Janet and her babies carefully tucked so that they were breathing, their tiny bodies radiating heat; Master Viktor and his snoring and occasional bark in his sleep of _komm hier_ ; Miss Eleanor and her dogs whuffling and twitching their paws; Winter and his cold arm outside of the blankets, Summer's hair tickling his nose; Master Jacob and Mistress Robin, finally reunited, Matt between them, glowing at a job well done; Master Robert and his sleep apnea machine and his IV stand--  
  
Matt jolted with fear, was he supposed to be naked, how soon was Master Robert coming back, how bad were his injuries, what mood was the master in, what was he supposed to be doing--  
  
Making coffee. For _Foggy_ , who was his owner now, and not Master Robert, who was dead, because Matt had killed him. Now he was owned by Foggy Nelson, who had him be a doll, and let him go to law school, and liked him, and had never whipped him, and would never make him into a pet.  
  
Foggy Nelson, who was impossibly kind.  
  
Matt got up, now fully awake, and got dressed efficiently, heading downstairs to start bacon and assembling bread.  
  
\--  
  
Foggy finally felt okay to get out of the shower. No sex had happened; Matt was still safe and okay with him. Matt wasn't even scared.  
  
He got out of the shower and blinked at the empty bedroom, and then headed downstairs.  
  
Matt was rootling around carefully, trying to find something.  
  
"You good?" Foggy asked, combing his hair.  
  
"Yes, Foggy," Matt said. "I'm just trying to find the bacon," and it clicked for Foggy.  
  
"Oh, no," Foggy said quickly. "No, I meant--have you ever had the BLTs at this one place at the place I'm thinking of?"  
  
Matt tilted his head. "Most likely not, Foggy."  
  
"Cool, then I'll get to show you. They have the _best_ ones, it's the greatest hangover cure, we'll hit there and then Lush for all that super indulgent stuff and then, like, get some blankets and totally unnecessarily fuzzy pajamas and ice cream and shit, and then just watch dumb movies and chill. We deserve that."  
  
Matt smiled and nodded.   
  
"Sound good to you?"  
  
Matt said, nodding again, "Yes, Foggy."  
  
"Okay," Foggy said, and smiled brightly at him.  
  
\--  
  
With coffee cups and hot sandwiches in their hands, it was easier for Matt to ignore the feeling of the scarf covering up his collar.  
  
It felt dangerous and odd; Matt hadn't been allowed to wear a scarf _over_ his collar for years upon years. Over a decade, now. There were cold-weather collars, of course, and the rabbit fur one wasn't quite wide enough to count properly, but this was different.  
  
The person who had taken their order had asked _Matt_ , too, what he wanted, and wished him a good day as well. It was the strangest thing.  
  
And now Matt made himself take a bite of the sandwich--  
  
And put it down, eyes widening reflexively.  
  
"Good?" Foggy said, a smile in his voice.  
  
Matt licked his lips. "Delicious," he said, but he didn't mean it. There was something about the tomatoes that tasted wrong to him; they were maybe a week underripe.  
  
"Matt," and Matt knew he had to be honest then, "I--not really, Foggy."  
  
"Oh, okay," Foggy said easily, not in the least bit upset. "Did you want to try a different one then? They've got a spinach, artichoke, arugula and cheesy one that's great too."  
  
Matt blinked in surprise. He wasn't angry? He didn't think Matt was ungrateful for the lovely treat?  
  
Matt felt rather like someone who had just bitten into a strawberry and tasted a kiwi. It was disconcerting.  
  
But that was a suggestion, and Matt stood up to get one.  
  
"Here," Foggy said cheerfully, pressing a bill into his hand, hopefully--probably--enough for it. "More for me," and he took the remains of Matt's sandwich.  
  
Matt went and got the one Foggy had suggested, head spinning.  
  
"Hey, you enjoy that, man," the person said to him as they gave him the plate.  
  
"Thank you," he said, and halfway to the table realized he'd forgotten the proper address.  
  
But nothing bad happened. He ate the sandwich, and smiled involuntarily at how good it was, and thanked Foggy without kissing his hand because Foggy moved it away quickly.  
  
And he drank the coffee--he'd gotten a peppermint mocha iced coffee--and it was perfect and surreal.  
  
\--  
  
Operation: Treat Yo Self was off to a good start as they had the food.  
  
Foggy kept a careful eye on Matt and the scarf, but it was a good green and red tartan and never slipped.  
  
And once Matt wasn't terrified of being hit for not liking the sandwich or something--Foggy could hear it now, _slaves are supposed to enjoy what an owner gives them_ or some bullshit--they both were calm and happy. Life was good. His hangover went away.  
  
Next, Lush.

\--

Lush was bright and cheerful and sort of crazy, just as it always was.  
  
Foggy grinned and led Matt and him in.  
  
"So," he said to Matt, "I'm thinking face-masks, and bubble bath supplies, and bath bombs. Maybe lotion too? Fancy conditioner or whatever?"  
  
Matt nodded.  
  
"Heyyyy," one of the people in nametags came over. Foggy recognized her from high school. "Hey, Fog- _gy_! How are you!"  
  
"Pretty good, Jamie," he said.  
  
"And hey, hi to you too," she said, turning to Matt, her long rainbow-pastel curls swishing in their ponytail.  
  
"He's your--?"  
  
"Matt," Foggy said, and on impulse hugged him to his side a bit.   
  
"Oh, nice," Jamie said. "Anyway, you need some help?"  
  
Foggy thought about it, and then shook his head. "Nah, we got this," he said, and she grinned brightly and swished away to go help someone else with a "Okay, call me if you need help!"  
  
\--  
  
Everything _smelled_ so much, but Foggy was very good at guiding him as they walked, and he appeared very serious about getting things for Matt, too.   
  
"See, which one of these sounds better? 'Orange and mango infusion with hints of bergamot and passion fruit' or 'champagne, strawberries, and cream decadence'?"  
  
Matt tilted his head, thinking hard. He'd had face masks smeared on him before and peeled off; granted, it was mostly to help clear pores so that auction makeup would go on even better.  
  
"The second one, Foggy?"  
  
"Okay, smell," and he held it up in front of Matt.  
  
Matt sniffed and nodded.  
  
"Cool. Then I'll get this one--'tropical fruit miasma'--and then let's go on for bubble baths."  
  
Matt wondered vaguely if Foggy intended to share a bath, or give him a bath, or if Matt would actually get a bath alone, a chance to soak in the tub by himself. The idea made something inside of him shiver faintly.   
  
"Hrm, okay," Foggy said. "There's kind of a lot. So, let's try this: what kind of things do you really hate the smell of?"  
  
Matt thought about it and decided to take a risk, indulge himself a little bit, make himself happier for Foggy. It was the least he could do to repay the endless fount of sweetness and mercy.  
  
"Vanilla," Matt said, carefully only skirting the edges of his memories of Stick. The small room they made up in his head was not a safe place to go.   
  
"Okay, skip all those vanilla-based monstrosities," Foggy said cheerfully. "Then, ooh, that's a cool one, what about rose jam? It says it's moisturizing, too."  
  
Matt smiled. "That sounds good, Foggy."  
  
"Great. Now, let me see--huh, I've never tried yuzu before, that sounds great," and there was the sound of Foggy getting one too. It was odd how they weren't plastic or even glass bottles, but small strangely-shaped things.  
  
"Okay, great, now let's go for the bath bombs."  
  
"I'm not sure what bath bombs are, Foggy," Matt said, feeling even more risky, like circling an opponent in a sparring match, seeing what they'd do if you darted forward.  
  
"Oh, Matt, they're awesome! You put them in and they fizz and turn it like a billion colors and shit, and then they smell great."  
  
Matt smiled, and wondered if Foggy would tell him what colors they turned. Probably.  
  
"Okay, let's see," Foggy said. "Do you want 'energizing' or 'soothing'?"  
  
Matt tried to puzzle through which one Foggy wanted, but either his senses were out of whack with the smells or else Foggy genuinely didn't care either way, so he picked, "Energizing?"  
  
"Cool, let's see--avocado, apple cinnamon, or, uh, 'blue'? Huh, what's in--oh, okay, it says that it has lavendar, and lemon oil, minerals and salts and ooh, it has _seaweed_ too!"  
  
Matt tilted his head. That sounded--"That one, then, please?"  
  
"Yeah, of course, now I think I'll stick with my trusty blackberry, it's fantastic. You know, it's the first one Mom--Anna, I mean--got for me."  
  
Matt listened harder. "Oh?"  
  
"Yep. She took me here after a weekend at Rosalind's, me and just her, and told me that since apparently Rosalind didn't know how to be kind to children, she'd teach me a bit of how to be kind to myself, and taught me all these things. I'd forgotten a lot," and Foggy sounds wistful, regretful.   
  
"Living for four years across the country without a bathtub does that to you. But, well, things are better now. Let's go see if they have any decent lotions, and then at hair, yeah. You've got nice hair," and Matt's face flamed at the compliment.  
  
His stomach felt oddly fluttery as they continued, Foggy telling him how things all looked, stacked up in baskets with easter grass, the shelves and the chalkboard labels and the ribbons and wrappers glittering like gold.   
  
"It's all super Christmasy," Foggy was explaining, as they went to go check out, conditioner and body butters as well as the other treats in Foggy's basket. "The line's pretty long, too."  
  
Matt smiled and leaned in a tiny bit, glad to be standing. It was harder to shuffle forward and then stop precisely when on your knees.  
  
\--  
  
Target was less fun, mostly because there was a slave and their owner in the same section as the blankets.  
  
Foggy paused and guided Matt over to a corner near the neglected bikinis--and _why_ were they selling bikinis right before Christmas?--and asked him, carefully, "Hey, so there's a douchebag in here who's got this poor guy wearing what looks like a, a gag with a ring in the mouth and also his hands are tied behind his back and he's being yanked on a leash or something? Fucking Christ. Did you want to skip or just get junk food first or something?"  
  
Matt blinked. "I don't care," he said, and then flinched at himself, saying, "It's okay, Foggy, I can of course be around other slaves without doing anything--wrong."  
  
Foggy was glad nobody overheard. Watching other people be nice to Matt for once was refreshing. Even the door-greeters smiled at him and wished him a nice day. Nobody gave him the sort of disturbing leer or skated their gazes over him like furniture.  
  
"Well, let's go for the pajamas section, then," Foggy decided. "Allow me to introduce you to the realm of the hyper-fuzzy," and Matt walked him, perfectly in harmony.  
  
\--  
  
Foggy appeared to be quite serious about the pajamas. He asked Matt if he'd prefer the ones with Captain America or Bucky Barnes or the Howling Commandos in general, and when Matt had offered up that he didn't care, he could barely remember reading Captain America comics, the conversation got abruptly diverted into how Matt hadn't always been blind.  
  
"Really?" Foggy asked, sorting through another shelf. "When you did get blinded?"  
  
It's weird, having an owner who apparently _really_ never read through his papers, but Matt says, "I was nine. There was an accident, and a chemical spilled into my eyes and destroyed all light perception."  
  
Foggy drops his armful of pajamas. "Wait--where was this?"  
  
"Hell's Kitchen," Matt said, dread in his gut.  
  
"Wait--wait--you're _Matt **Murdock**_? The kid who saved that old guy from a car accident? And who got blinded because of it?"  
  
Matt nodded, wincing at it. He wasn't Matt _Murdock_ anymore.  
  
"Oh," Foggy said, and hugged him hard. "Shit. Shit. Nobody deserves the kind of awful shit you've gone through, all that--" and Foggy makes a disgusted noise, "But especially not you. Fuck. I loved you as a kid, you know? Like I was super obsessed with all your newspaper articles, I had every clipping, I think I sent you some sort of card about how great you were, you made me realize--"  
  
\--  
  
Foggy cuts himself off before he tells Matt _you made me realize I liked boys too_ because Jesus H Christ he couldn't say something like that. Fuck.  
  
How had he not seen the resemblance? He still _had_ all those old newspaper clippings, every article, every weird 'inspirational' piece, all of them. Tons of photos.   
  
Candace had teased him, said he looked like a serial killer on _Criminal Minds_ and promptly gotten them into trouble because they weren't supposed to watch that, and Foggy had ended up putting them all in a box in the basement before cleaning up his room for college.  
  
Jesus fuck. Matt was _Matt Murdock_.   
  
But then Foggy realized that of course he didn't recognize him--Matt was submissive and made himself small and had his face pointed _down_ as the default. Good lord. He didn't look heroic at all a lot of the time.  
  
Except, now that he thought about it, when he'd helped people. Helping Foggy, helping Bee Elle.  
  
Okay. Okay. Foggy would feel all his feeling about this later. Right now was supposed to be fun and about good things.  
  
"Okay, so that's super heavy for today," Foggy said. "Let's see. Um, Batman pajamas? How do you feel about Batman?"

\--

It's the whole Murdock thing that makes Matt answer honestly, he decides later.  
  
"Batman is a useless cretin who thinks he's helping out the city when really, all he's doing is satisfying his own sadism and perpetuating the cycle of poverty and subsequent crime in his idiotic little anti-slavery-propaganda comics," Matt says, voice still, thankfully, not loud.   
  
Foggy draws back and Matt gulps hard, oh hell, but then a store assistant is coming over and Matt freezes and doesn't go to his knees, and she says, chirping, "Need any help over here?"  
  
Matt stays still and scared, heart pounding, but Foggy doesn't tell her sorry that my slut is misbehaving, instead all he says is, "No, I think we're okay, I'm just helping my friend out," and she must see Matt's glasses--the ones Candace casually gave to him and Foggy approved and Matt wore today because Foggy thought they looked good and Matt _was_ still, inappropriately, a bit vain--because she just nods and says, "Oh, of course. Well, if you need any more help, just ask me!" and walks away.  
  
Thank goodness. Matt turns to Foggy--  
  
Who just says, "That's an interesting opinion."  
  
Matt closes his mouth, carefully, testing the situation, wondering if his theory that Foggy maybe _won't_ punish him for being angry will hold. Maybe.   
  
He isn't angry when Matt lets a bit of his annoyance at his mock trial opponents come through in his rhetoric; he wasn't angry when Matt was pissed at the home invaders; he doesn't forbid Matt from training; he hasn't even commented yet on any of Matt's facial expression slips.  
  
Maybe, just maybe, Foggy will do nothing.  
  
And then he actually _does_ , going back and finding incredibly soft microfleece ones for Matt in plain black, and then grabbing a new pair for himself, and they head over to blankets.  
  
Nothing bad happens at all. Matt's not so much of a defective fuckup.  
  
\--  
  
The fuck-a-duck guy with the poor dude on a leash is still there, sorting meticulously through the bargain bin, so Foggy straightens his spine and goes to tussle with him.  
  
"Getting one for your _boy_ friend?" the guy sneers, yanking on the leash every few seconds, making the guy--who's wearing painted-on clothes and looks incredibly out of it--jerk on the floor for air.  
  
Foggy hates him, and resolves to just not respond as he fishes for blankets. They're all the same texture, just different patterns and sizes, and Foggy snags a dark red for Matt (it goes well with him) and a dark blue for him and goes back to the cart.   
  
He turns his back to the guy and realizes that he _knows_ that asshole. He's a guy in their class. Foggy almost faced off him in a mock trial, but then the guy threw up all over himself and begged off.  
  
Foggy smirks to himself a bit. Schadenfreude for assfucks like that was perfectly fine in his opinion.  
  
"Hey, these feel good, Matt?" Foggy asks him, thrusting them out.  
  
Matt feels them and smiles warmly, his whole face lighting up. He looks incredible in the glasses, handsome and somehow nearly angelic without the usual calculating wariness in his gaze.  
  
"Yes, Foggy," Matt says, and Foggy puts them in, and heads to junk food, ignoring the douchebag. Hopefully they won't run into each other again at Columbia.  
  
\--  
  
They end up heading home with golfish, chips, ice cream bars in mint chocolate chip for Matt and neapolitian for Foggy (if Matt didn't like how vanilla smelled, he probably would hate the taste), soda, juice, popcorn, bagel bites, candy and pulled pork microwave sandwiches. All the things for an adult sleepover without the more pants-off portion of the 'adult'.  
  
On the way back, Foggy turns to Matt and asks, "So, uh, hey, swing by our place and grab clothes?"  
  
Matt nods, murmurs, "Sounds sensible, Foggy," and then when they're there, Matt asks, voice tentative like his fingers are when he's feeling for something in any place that's not their apartment, "Uh, Foggy, could I maybe--"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Could I go to Fogwell's and then go back to the Nelson's home?"  
  
Foggy blinks. "Sure. And it's your home, too, okay?"  
  
"Of course, Foggy," Matt murmurs, and goes to get his gear and goes off.  
  
Foggy gets back, puts things in the fridge and his room, goes back downstairs, and prepares a list of things to ask his therapist for advice on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Things Eve Learned from the Serpent" by Sandy Supowit, here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/98334381501/things-eve-learned-from-the-serpent


	77. and that orange it made me so happy

Matt walked to Fogwell's, mind churning.

He hadn't _meant_ to snap out his real opinion of Batman. It just had slipped out, and that meant he was losing control. He needed to vent out his anger.

(It wasn't exactly _his_ opinion. He barely remembered Batman, not even as much as Captain America comics. But he did remember--vividly--Stick's opinion of Batman and his harsh barking laugh, like a starving coyote, and all those memories of being a Murdock had brought it up and it had tumbled out.)

You couldn't repress anger forever; one of the benefits of having bodyguarding certification--and therefore his owners having an incentive to let him train--was that then one could let some of it out that way. Carefully, and without being unacceptable or dangerous.

And Matt hunched his shoulders, walking quickly as he could, hurrying. He'd take maybe a half-hour of control training and then he'd get back to Foggy and be able to be happy with him, loll his head on Foggy's shoulder. Be allowed to just relax.

But as he got there, he noticed there was Mr Fogwell inside, instead of gone like he was every other time. Then again, it was much earlier in the day than when Matt usually went.

Matt bit his lip hard; he wasn't sure how to deal with this, but something twitched inside of him, and he took the chance and went in.

"Afternoon," Mr Fogwell said.

Matt nodded, went over to where he usually put his coat and gloves, and took off the scarf last.

"Still got that collar on?"

Matt winced, hung his head, and nodded, straightening his back. Time to face the music.

"It's a damn shame," Mr Fogwell said, his voice low and bitter. "A shame. Battlin' Jack's kid treated like that."

That...wasn't what Matt had expected him to say. He tilted his head.

"The bastard who owns you doesn't let you talk?"

Matt swallowed. He couldn't misrepresent Foggy like that. "No," he said, unable to add on any title. Not for someone he'd known from before. "Foggy's nice," he added without thinking.

"Can't be that nice," Mr Fogwell observed.

Matt shrugged. "He lets me come here," he said, and it hung in the air like a cut violin string. Matt's muscles tensed; arguing with a free person was not acceptable behavior.

But all Mr Fogwell did was snort and turn his head. "Not the worst ain't the same as not bad."

"Yeah," Matt said as he wrapped up his hands and ankles, because it was true.

The anger inside of him squirmed, and Matt started stretching out.

"You getting fed, at least?"

Matt nodded. "I get food all the time now," he said, thinking of when he'd first been surrendered as new property. The Bureau fed slaves a bit, of course, but only two meals a day, and at the time it had felt like choking down poison. And the owner of the Brooklyn Open Market was, as Bee would've put it, a cunt. He fed slaves at role-call, and it was so little it cut into his profit margins as they got hungrier and less attractive with each day.

Mr Fogwell sat there, presumably watching, as Matt began to warm up with some basic punches and kicks. He focused on his movements, keeping them controlled, and got deeper and deeper into it, holding tight posture and keeping his body precisely where he wanted it to be.

Time passed quickly, but Matt's internal clock was good, and before long it was time for him to stretch back out and get going.

Mr Fogwell interrupted his thoughts as he finished up, wrapping the scarf back around his collar as Foggy had helped him put it earlier. "You're still a fighter, huh," he said. "Where do you live?"

Matt knew better than to answer that specifically, but it felt unbearably rude to not say anything, so he said, quickly, "Near Columbia. Why?"

He vibrated with tension, but all Mr Fogwell said was, "Your Dad would be proud of you, you know."

Matt's jaw dropped. "I--what?"

"You're alive," Mr Fogwell said, sipping at something. "That's what he'd always wanted."

Matt--couldn't. Time stretched and melted and he was walking to the Nelsons', shivering.

\--

When Matt got back, Foggy had already indulged himself in a ridiculously nice bubble bath, so it was his turn.

"Hey," he said brightly. "Let me show you where I put our stuff," and he led Matt up to his room.

"So here's yours," and Matt felt the bag, a sudden spreading smile on his face.

Matt picked it up and sniffed and plucked out the bath bomb and bubble bath, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Should I--bathe alone?"

"What? Yeah, yeah," Foggy said hastily. "No sex, remember?"

"Of course, Foggy," Matt murmured, and turned and walked to the bath.

\--

It was so good on his muscles to just soak in the hot, scented water, feeling the play of the oils and minerals and scents all over him.

The bubbles he only put a tiny amount in--just enough to smell it, really--and he lay back and slowly shut off his hearing.

It was exhausting, the amount of work Matt put into constantly listening and paying attention to Foggy's face, to the bodies of all the free people around him. It was, of course, the only way he could read them as accurately as he needed to, and it was only appropriate for him to pay close attention, but it was so very tiring.

 

He shut off his thoughts, too, not bothering to work out why it was Foggy had been so distressed by the mere presence of another slave. It hadn't even been bloodied or anything. But now wasn't the time for thinking. Now was the time to enjoy his reward for being alive.

Matt breathed in and out, almost meditating, feeling the warmth of the bath, hearing just the steam filling the room and his own slowly beating heart, smelling the seaweed and salt and lavender and lemon, the hints of strawberries and champagne and cream.

He lay back and soaked for a long time, knowing that Foggy surely wouldn't get angry about his pretty, warm doll enjoying the nice things he'd deigned to give him.

 

\--

 

Matt emerged from his bath, in the new pajamas, looking warm and soft and happy.

He held out a hand with his collar in it to Foggy.

Oh, right, yeah. That.

"Sure, yeah," Foggy said as Matt turned around and knelt at the bottom of the bed. He carefully closed it shut, and then paused.

"That comfortable?"

Matt chewed on his lip, his back tensing a bit in fear.

"It's fine if it's not," Foggy reassured him. "I'll just readjust it."

Matt said, voice very, very careful, "Tighter, please, Foggy?"

Foggy paused, and then his hands tugged at the collar and pulled it tighter on his neck.

"Better? You're not choking or anything?"

Matt asked, voice again soft and careful, "A little bit tighter, please, Foggy?"

Foggy tightened it more. "Better? You can breathe?"

Matt nodded, and then murmured, dreamlike, "Thank you so much, Foggy."

Foggy paused, hands on Matt's hair, and let himself sort of cradle it for a second before taking his hands off. "Anyway, food and a movie," he said. "Anna is willing to let us borrow from her collection, too."

Matt had turned around to look at Foggy, his eyes soft and adoringly happy. Foggy was almost alarmed until he realized that it was much more sincere, somehow, than the please-abuse-me gaze he'd given Foggy when he'd been given to him. Thank God.

"Well, okay, let me tell you about the ones Anna put out for us on the grounds that we'd probably like them, and you can choose the first one and I'll choose the second," and Matt nodded.

\--

For some reason--even Matt himself wasn't entirely sure why--he had decided on _Legally Blonde_. It had the best title, and Foggy had said it had a blonde woman with a chihuahua on the front cover, and something about it nudged at Matt, so in it went.

Then it started, and Matt was almost bored, right up until they mentioned her LSAT score, Foggy's description sounding shocked.

Then he sat up with burning interest.

And then things got funnier and stranger and better and worse, and by the end of the movie, there were empty plates by an empty bowl of popcorn and casually crushed soda cans, and Matt was curled into Foggy, grinning with triumph and still laughing at some of the portrayals of law school.

It was a _great_ movie, and Matt felt loose and relaxed. Foggy really was sweet all the way through, without so many hidden hooks.

\--

Now that the awkward had passed, Foggy chose one of his favorite movies for watching--his favorite because regardless of how or when or why or with whom you saw it, it was a beautiful experience.

He chose _Pulp Fiction_.

Almost right away Matt seemed to love it, grinning wide and chortling at the interrogation scene, and he actually laughed so hard he rolled off Foggy and onto the wall as Jules screamed, "ENGLISH, MOTHERFUCKER, DO YOU _SPEAK_ IT!"

Foggy paused it, laughing a little, then saying, "Oh, god, Matt, are you okay?"

Matt nodded, giggling. "I'm okay," he said, his entire face curling and distorting in mirth. "I'm fine," he said, and curled up back into Foggy. "More, please?"

Foggy smirked and turned it back on.

Things went very, very well, right up until the rape scene with the gimp-slave.

Foggy froze once he remembered where it was going, and then Matt froze too.

"Shit," Foggy said suddenly. "Shit--I--fuck, do you want me to turn it off? They're, uh, they're sort of--shit, they're bringing out their slave, uh, fuck--"

Matt went stiff next to Foggy. He licked his lips and Foggy went quiet.

"I--what happens to it?"

Foggy blinked. "Huh?"

"What happens to it, to the slave? Does it die?"

"What? No."

"Oh," Matt said against Foggy's shoulder. And then: "Um, Foggy, could we continue then, please?"

Foggy stared at Matt, and thought about how he'd had to be practically sat on by Candace to end up finishing watching _Lilo and Stitch_ after he'd run out of the movie theater the first time when he was young.

(Foggy had been a pretty sensitive kid.)

In the long run, it had been good for him, and now watching horror movies--facing his fears--especially in a way like that was cathartic.

And Matt wanted to.

"Okay," Foggy said, "But--let me know if you want to stop, okay? We'll just pick a totally different dumb movie. _Ninja Assassin 2_ or something, okay? I won't be mad."

Matt seemed even tenser, but consciously leaned into Foggy, and nodded.

Then Foggy put it back on, and cleared his throat.

"So there's the guy's slave, the poor dude, in this, uh, gimp suit-- you know what those are?"

"I'm familiar," Matt murmured.

"Yeah, okay, and all three of them are staring at Wallace and Butch, creepily, the blonde guy's hands tapping on the slave's head as they discuss which of them to rape first..."

By the time Foggy got to describing Wallace shooting Zed in the dick with blood on his shirt and the bright red ball gag out, Matt seemed to have relaxed again, and as Foggy described Wallace's stone-faced fury as he described how he was going to have Zed tortured to death, Matt smiled.

"And then as they settle it, Butch looks less and less uncertain, and Wallace is still cold and unmoving and stone."

Matt made a soft, contented sigh, and Foggy realized he was almost sitting in his lap, his head on Foggy's shoulder.

"You good?" he murmured to Matt in the lull of Butch examining the motorcycle.

"Yes," Matt said, smiling. "He got his revenge, and he gets to live."

Foggy noted that down in his mind-- _Matt likes happy endings_ \--and kept happily describing the visuals.

 

\--

 

  
_Pulp Fiction_ was also completely excellent as a movie, Matt decided, and enjoyed for a while lying almost on Foggy's lap as the credits played.

All the stories tied together beautifully, and Foggy's voice when describing things was soft and rhythmic and amusing. He was good at not just explaining what the visual information being conveyed was, but making funny images sound hilarious and horrific images sound gruesome.

Then Foggy twitched and Matt obediently moved off of him.

"Hmm," Foggy said. "More snacks?"

Matt smiled and ducked his head. He wasn't hungry, and yet he was being fed. And not so much that his gut stretched, and he wasn't going to be used afterwards. It was such a luxury.

Matt nodded, and Foggy and he went downstairs to grab more snacks.

\--

Bee was in the kitchen, sneaking a sandwich, when Matt and Foggy came down, smiling like idiots at each other. Then they immediately snuck into a corner, food in hand, observing.

They watched carefully as Matt reached out to get some of the weird fish-shaped crackers and told Foggy that he'd want a rootbeer over a sprite.

"Great," Foggy said, grinning hugely. "And now--gummi bears and let's also get those other ones," and he grabbed two crinkly packages of candy and put them into two other bowls, stacking them, "And hey, Matt, sour cream and onion or salt and vinegar?"

"Both, Foggy?"

Bee frowned, watching. Matt looked...not fucked out, but something weirdly similar to it, his hair half wet and his body relaxed and carrying the remnants of a flush--

Oh. Had Foggy...given him a bath? Washed him?

They thought about it, and tried to not care the way free people did, but they couldn't not see things. It was like there was a part of their brain that had spent so much time noticing how free people around them treated their slaves that they couldn't turn it off.

Bee stared. Foggy was nice to Matt, but at the same time, he was an owner and still, casually, gave little orders. Granted, they were never painful or things Matt really hated, but it was a little flexing of power.

They remained out of sight as Foggy and Matt went back upstairs, balancing bowls of snacks and laughing at something Foggy had said.

Then they went back to the guest room, eating their sandwich, and watching more of Netflix on their tablet. _Keeping Up With the Kardashians_ was bizarrely captivating.

\--

"Anyway, Matt," Foggy says as he carefully puts down all the snack bowls on the floor so they could be reached. "You can pick the next thing, whatever you want, doesn't have to be a movie."

Matt pauses. "Can I--" he starts, and then moves even closer to Foggy, lower and lower, and for one second Foggy thinks he's going to try to blow him, but instead all Matt does is lie down so his head is in Foggy's lap.

"Yeah," Foggy says after a minute. It's sweet how much more Matt's trusting him than he used to. "Yeah, totally, Matt," he says, and on some weird impulse one hand scratches through Matt's hair. It falls into a blurry category of how people sometimes cuddle with very close lovers and sleepy best friend and how people cuddle with slaves--if they do even cuddle with slaves--but Matt's happy and as long as he's happy Foggy can be happy, too.

Matt's eyes flutter shut. Then he murmurs, "Maybe some stand-up comedian on Netflix, Foggy?"

"Yeah, cool," Foggy says, and goes to that category. "Okay, there's _American Ham_ , that looks really white macho dude, and there's this guy called Anthony Jeselnik, that looks super fucking dark humor from a white guy, I dunno, I mean--do you want to try him out?" he asks. Matt has kind of dark sense of humor.

Matt blinks, and then he murmurs, "Could I hear more choices, first, Foggy?"

Foggy exhales out. "Okay, so there's a guy who they describe as a 'hopeless romantic', and then there's Kevin Hart, whose special is called 'Laugh at My Pain'--"

Matt shifts. "That one?" Foggy guesses.

"Yes, please, Foggy," Matt murmurs.

"Cool," Foggy says, and pauses.

"How does, uh, this make you feel?" he asks Matt and on _this_ he strokes over Matt's hair again.

"Safe," Matt says after a second, eyes shut.

Oh. Well. "Good," Foggy says, and keeps doing it. "Let me know if anything gets to be too much for you."

"Okay, Foggy," Matt says, snuggling down harder.

Foggy grins to himself. Matt feels _safe_ , which is the whole point of this whole day. Both of them feeling good. He makes sure to run his fingers through Matt's hair again and turns Kevin Hart on, and starts to describe it.

\--

Kevin Hart is side-splittingly hilarious, Matt discovers, giggling and chortling. His descriptions of cocaine addicts are on the dot, making Matt think of all the rich people he's known who inexplicably hula-hooped all the time. When he gets to the part where his dad steals a police dog, he laughs so hard he accidentally does a spit-take and splatters himself with rootbeer.

But Foggy genuinely isn't angry, and just hands him a napkin, and keeps occasionally stroking his hair, which is incredibly soothing. It's where he belongs, his head on his owner's lap, his hair being stroked.

And yet it's also something that anchors him back into being _himself_ , being Matt, because he gets to choose what they're laughing at and he gets to laugh at whatever he finds funny and not what his owner laughs at first and he gets to delicately reach out a hand and take chips and goldfish crackers and gummy and hard candies and eat them.

Matt sinks deeper into his state of pure pleasure to the point where his laugh is loud and howling as well as strong when Kevin Hart talks about his mother's funeral, and he almost worries for a moment but all Foggy's doing is laughing with him, and it's all okay, it's okay.

\--

"Mmm," Foggy said, sleepy. "I'm thinking we're both exhausted."

Matt nodded against his stomach, where his head had ended up.

"Okay," Foggy said, yawning. "Let's--fuck, my teeth--I'll get the dishes downstairs, don't worry," and he takes them down, puts them in the sink, totally forgetting about the dishwasher, says goodnight to Anna and Dad and Candace, all of whom had had their own leftovers-for-dinner dinners, and goes back up to Matt.

"So," Foggy said, after he brushed his teeth, looking at Matt curled up on his bed. "You want to sleep here, I'm guessing?"

Matt asked, softly, "Yes, please, Foggy."

Foggy thought it over for a minute, trying to figure out a way to make sure he couldn't possibly hurt Matt.

"Okay," he said, because he was tired and Matt was so warm and said that he _liked_ cuddling Foggy, being carefully touched, "But--safety rules, okay? To make sure there can't be any sex or anything close to it."

Matt nodded and sat up, listening.

"Okay, um," and Foggy thought hard about it. "Okay, first of all, all the clothes stay on, and uh, if there's any...inconvenient Basilisks, so to speak, just wake me up before I can...do...anything in my sleep, okay? So that you stay safe."

Matt looked vaguely confused, but nodded. "Don't undress at any point and wake you up in case of nocturnal erections," he summarized.

Foggy nodded. "Okay, cool," and he wriggled under the blankets, pausing to wrap Matt in his new red fluffy one.

Matt smiled widely and came under the covers too, wriggling up to Foggy.

Foggy turned off his bedroom light, made sure his phone alarms were off, his laptop was shut on his desk, wrapped his arms around Matt, and fell asleep, completely unstressed for the first time in months.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also from "The Orange" by Wendy Cope.


	78. live not for the battles won

It was most of the way through the night when Matt woke up.

He was muzzy, confused, for a few moments, and then he realized Foggy was hard again and grinding gently against him.

Matt sighed, and then remembered: he had instructions for this.

"Foggy," he said quietly, turning so that Foggy's erection was against his thigh instead of his ass, "Foggy, you should wake up."

Foggy mumbled something incoherently.

" _Foggy_ ," Matt said, more insistently.

Foggy didn't wake up.

Matt chewed on the inside of his cheek and took a chance. He reached up one hand, and rubbed his knuckles of his fist hard against Foggy's sternum.

Foggy jolted awake--it always worked, and said, "Matt?"

Matt murmured, "You said to wake you up if this happened."

"Wha--oh. Yeah. Okay, uh, good job Matt, thanks for protecting yourself," Foggy babbled. "Let's--uh--let's get out of bed, midnight snacks, yay."

Matt moved out of bed, daringly keeping the blanket around him. It was soft and warm.

Foggy seemed upset, but not at Matt. Instead he headed to the bathroom where Matt heard him wet a towel and put it on his erection, hissing, and Matt felt more and more confused as he moved to the kitchen table.

"Hey Matt," Foggy said as he came down. "You okay?"

Matt nodded. "You didn't do anything, Foggy," he explained. It wasn't anything. It was just a little bit of grinding, and Foggy had been asleep, and once Matt had woken him up they were both okay. Nothing had really happened.

(And why was Matt so scared of anything happening? Sex was an excellent way to calm an owner down. All of them liked Matt more afterwards, except for Foggy. And it wasn't as if Foggy would do it all that often if it started back up again.

Maybe there was something wrong with Foggy? Had someone...hurt him sexually in the past? Was that why Foggy was so upset at having sex with Matt when Matt found it so nauseating?

Matt felt a low, cold anger in his gut at the idea. If anyone had ever hurt Foggy-- _Foggy_ , who was patient and kind and generous and funny and sweet beyond words, how could anyone dare to hurt him--like that, Matt would _kill_ them, he'd slit throats before and he could do it again.)

"Hey, so, I uh realized something," Foggy said and Matt snapped to attention.

"I realized that the contract for me owning you--the one I had to sign or else leave you with Rosalind and I wasn't about to do that--it stipulates that if I have to _sell_ you until the end of this year, that I'd have to sell you back to her, and I won't, seriously, ever, fuck that, but I don't think it says anything about what would happen to you if I, uh, died, or something like that."

Matt tilted his head, heart thudding with fear. But he thought about it. "It is possible, within a living will, to appoint a different person as a temporary acting-owner for slaves," he said carefully.

"Okay," Foggy said. "I'll look at the contract again in the morning. Who would you want?"

Matt's head spun, and he tried vainly to grasp for answers.

Foggy rescued him. "Uh, would Bee work?"

Matt flinched back. "No, Foggy," he said slowly. "I--there are a lot of problems with that."

"Why?" Foggy said with a frown.

"Well," Matt said slowly, mind racing for the arguments to articulate, "They--I don't know if recently freed slaves can even own other slaves, Foggy, and I don't think they have the, uh, funds to do it, especially if there was any long-term situation and," and this is the worst one but it's always true, "And I think that given my relative market value, they would have a very, very strong incentive to just sell me."

"Oh," Foggy said. "Shit. Wow. You don't think they would really--?"

Matt winced. "I don't know, Foggy," he said. "But--when it comes to money--it's not smart to trust anyone with it."

His heart pounded and ricocheted--

But Foggy just nodded. "Okay," he said. "Anyone else?"

Matt felt grateful to him as he moved on to the next possibility. "Uh, Anna seems sensible?"

"Yeah, she's great," Foggy said. "Okay. We can work on it in the morning. Also, that reminds me--" and he stood up and shuffled around and then there was a cold metal can of soda in front of Matt, who opened it and sipped it gratefully.

"Did you, uh, like the scarf? How did you feel about that?"

Matt thought about it slowly. "It didn't go how I expected it to go," he said. He'd thought that everyone would be able to _tell_ , that there was something about him that would just scream the truth for all to hear. He didn't understand how nobody noticed that there was something fundamentally false about him going about, dressed like a person.

"Better or worse?"

Matt frowned. Was it good to be treated like a free person when he wasn't or bad to not be put in his place? "I don't know, Foggy," he said apologetically.

Foggy shrugged. "Okay," he said easily. "Did you want to chill on the couch, or go back upstairs?"

"Whatever you want, Foggy," Matt said automatically, mind spinning from the day.

Foggy made a frustrated noise in his throat. "Matt, sometimes, I swear to god, you're exhausting," he said, and then froze.

Matt was stiff and still, bracing himself for a blow--

Which, of course, never came. All Foggy did was sigh again, and say, "Remember? I like honestly, and no punishments."

"I remember, Foggy," Matt murmured. "I apologize for frustrating and tiring you, Foggy, please tell me how I can correct my behavior in the future."

"Just--" Foggy sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Don't--ugh. No. It's okay, it's fine."

Matt's not quite sure of what's going on, or what words Foggy's censoring from himself, so he grabs at what he's sure of, and murmurs, "Both would be lovely, Foggy."

"Okay," Foggy says slowly. "Okay. Well. I guess. Bed?"

Matt nods, and it's so warm he falls asleep right away as they curl back up into it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from Gwendolyn Brooks's "Speech to the Young", here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/73214003687/say-to-them-say-to-the-down-keepers-the


	79. at this point  she notices a wild strawberry growing from a crevice

Thank God, they both woke up fine, but it still takes a while for Foggy to fall asleep.  
  
He tries to reassure himself-- _nothing bad happened_ , he's just cuddling Matt, nothing wrong at all is happening, Matt woke up up before he could do anything, it's fine--and it still churns, low in his gut.  
  
Fuck. It's going to hurt, telling Miriam about all this.  
  
Foggy took a deep breath and focused on other things. Ways to protect Matt if anything happened to him. If the contract let him, he'd put it so that Matt was legally allowed to do whatever to keep himself okay if it was just a few days in a hospital bed or something--so that Matt could be alone and fine and at their apartment, defend himself, whatever it took--but for a longer-term problem, he'd let Anna take care of Matt.  
  
Shit. And he'd have to make some sort of documents with how to do that.  
  
 _Be nice to him, and if he says something super fucked up you can't really argue because he'll just agree with you, and you have to coax out any sort of preferences, and you can't ever hit him or have sex with him or anything like that, and you can't ignore him, and he likes cooking and cooking shows and strawberries and blankets and movies and he likes it when you describe things and you have to make sure he's not really out of it sometimes and--_  
  
So many things. He'd write it all down in the morning.  
  
Foggy sighed, and Matt curled up tighter into him in his sleep, face planted in Foggy's stomach as he bent into the fetal position.  
  
Things would be okay. Tomorrow they'd probably go back to their apartment, get more clothes and space, and Foggy could have some time to talk to Anna and Matt and get it all worked out.  
  
\--  
  
The next morning was very, very tense for two reasons.  
  
One, Matt was nervous about the idea of even being theoretically owned by any other owner, and felt sick at the idea of anything bad happening to Foggy. He knew it made him soft and weak, he did, but now that he was Foggy's, he had gotten used to so many nice things.  
  
Two, Bee Elle was in the kitchen, and the second Foggy came down, marched up to him and said, tablet on loud, "I want to be able to talk to Matt."  
  
Matt froze at the counter.  
  
Foggy said, "Uh--sure--what do you mean?"  
  
"I mean," they said calmly, "I want to be able to talk to Matt, and you to not listen in."  
  
What the fuck were they _doing_? Matt pulsed with adrenaline, every cell of his body on fire.  
  
Foggy seemed surprised. "Yeah? I mean, obviously. Totally. It's fine."  
  
Matt wanted to kneel and beg and ask Foggy to please not do this, to please forbid him from talking to them. He wanted all his memories of them to stay intact and protected inside his mind, far away from the new free person in front of him.  
  
But instead, they just nodded, and said, "Come _on_ then," and Matt turned his head to Foggy--  
  
Who said, "It's fine, Matt, seriously."  
  
Matt walked along, numbly, wondering what they were going to do to him, how they were going to exert their newfound power--  
  
They sat him down on the guest-room bed--  
  
Matt braced himself, opened up his mouth to yell for Foggy, or to beg to not do this, please--  
  
And then they tapped out on his arm, [You okay?]  
  
Matt breathed in and out, closing his eyes. "Fine, ma'am," he murmured.  
  
[...don't bullshit me.]  
  
Matt cringed. "Sorry, Miss Bee--"  
  
Then there was a horrible second where they were moving over him--  
  
And threw a pillow in his face.  
  
Matt caught it on reflex, blinking. [None of that,] they tapped furiously. [Nothing of that. Fuck that. I'm not a cunt.]  
  
Matt swallowed. [Don't pretend you're the same person.]  
  
Their face twitched, their body seething with fury, and Matt resolved to scream if they tried to use him, to scream for Foggy, Foggy was so determined to not let anyone have sex with him, Foggy would come for him.   
  
Their hands came up--  
  
 _No_ , Matt thought, suddenly furious himself instead of afraid. _No, not you, you're not my owner, you don't get to hit me, not you, we were friends, I was your friend, I helped you escape, you don't get to betray me like this, I don't deserve this--_  
  
And then they grabbed--hugged?--him.  
  
Matt wriggled out of it immediately. It was inappropriate enough for two slaves to touch without their owner's permission, and back when they'd been just Barely Legal he'd done that because he couldn't bear to have them be so cold, and when Foggy had owned them it had been okay, but now--  
  
Now it was not appropriate, not acceptable, not allowed.  
  
Matt pulled back, and they pulled back too, head tilted.  
  
[Asshole. I'm still me.]  
  
[You're not 3519781841181818,] he snapped. [You're a free person, and I'm not.]  
  
[Oh, fuck off,] they said back.  
  
"Yes, _mistress_ ," he spat without thinking, venomously, and stood up.  
  
[No. Shit. Matt, god, come here.]  
  
Matt walked over, sitting on the very edge.  
  
[Look, I want us to still be friends. Don't you?]  
  
[A free person and a slave can't be friends,] Matt said, gut twisting. [Even if they used to be before. Even if they want to be.]  
  
[Why are you so cynical about some things and so hopelessly optimistic about others?] they asked, and sighed.  
  
Matt frowned.  
  
[Seriously. I'm not going to hurt you, asshole. You're the only real friend I have. I'm not going to suddenly never talk to you again.]  
  
Matt sighed and sat down more, easing back. [How would we even do this?]  
  
[By talking to each other,] they tapped. [Doing the same things, except I won't live with you or anything.]  
  
Matt chewed on his cheek.  
  
Bee wasn't a physical threat, not really. He could break a hold they put on him and run, and they were untrained enough in violence that he could do that without hurting them and getting in very severe trouble.  
  
And they and Foggy were barely friends anyway. And if Foggy wouldn't lend Matt out to his sister, he wouldn't lend Matt out to them, either.  
  
All that, and Matt felt fairly certain that if he screamed for Foggy, Foggy would come and help and he'd have plausible deniability to get himself away from them if he needed to.   
  
So he said, [You try to use me and I'll scream for Foggy.]  
  
[Of course I won't, you utter piece of shit,] they tapped, face twisting and fists clenching. [Now get over here and listen to this show I found. I finished the one about the Kardashians, and this show is really funny. It's called Bridezilla...]  
  
\--  
  
Matt emerged from the guest room a good forty-five minutes later, just as Foggy had finished up reviewing the contract that Rosalind had had him sign in full.  
  
It was better and worse than he'd thought--Foggy could only gift _or_ sell Matt to her until he passed the bar, but at the same time, he could do everything else to cut her out of Matt's life.  
  
Foggy glanced up at Matt, who seemed to be contemplative.  
  
"Everything okay?"  
  
"It's odd," Matt said, sitting down across from him, feeling the chair first. "I've never had that happen to me before."  
  
Foggy blinked. "Nobody else got freed around you?"  
  
"No," Matt said. "Generally, once you're past a certain price bracket, it's very difficult to even pay back the prices, and very few slaves can be freed by arguing their cases. And certainly nobody wanted to free the ones I had the most contact with."  
  
Foggy tilted his head at him. "Huh. That makes a kind of horrific sense, I guess," he said.   
  
Matt nodded, and then Anna came down the stairs, dressed.  
  
"Uh, Mom, I was going to ask," Foggy said, handing her her glass of orange juice. Without it, she was...weird. "In the event of shit happening to me, would you be willing to take care of Matt?"  
  
"Oh, yes," she said, nodding. "Of course. Why not your father, though?"  
  
Foggy thought about it, and decided to be blunt. "Because Dad would make probably all the same fuckups I've made and I'd really rather those all never happen again in any universe?"  
  
She laughed and hugged him, still standing up. "Don't be so harsh on him, or you," she said. "Your father's pretty charming once you get past the first stumbles when he's in love."  
  
"Yeah," Foggy said, rolling his eyes, " _That's_ why you have fifty billion stories about him epically fucking up and horribly offending you and everyone else."  
  
"They're cute stories now," Anna said affectionately. "And a lot of them were funny right afterwards, too."  
  
"Like the time he literally threw up on your dog?"  
  
Anna cracked up. "It was amazing," she said. "He threw up six hot dogs on my _weiner dog_ ," she forced out, explaining to Matt, convulsing. "And then after Wario had finished running around like an idiot, yipping like a squirrel in heat, getting the puke absolutely _everywhere_ , he sat down and immediately tried to eat it all up--right in front of all my friends! It was the most exciting summer barbecue I'd ever had."  
  
Matt was silently laughing next to Foggy, one hand covering his mouth, eyes leaking with mirth.  
  
"Yes," she said brightly to Matt. "Edward is something of a unique bundle. But he's very good with children, and it's actually rather adorable, seeing someone that flustered. He apologized to me and Wario for months and months about it."  
  
Matt smiled and nodded, taking his hand away and hastily sipping his coffee.  
  
"Anyway," she said. "I've got a patient, so email me the details of the contract and then we can review and sign it later. I suppose you're heading back to your apartment?"  
  
"Yeah," Foggy said. "We need a bit of space. Plus if I re-wear any more clothes I think I'll die of the smell."  
  
Anna kissed him on the forehead, wished them both a good day, and headed out. Foggy glanced at Matt, but just before she left, he saw her staring intently at his face.  
  
Foggy frowned and wiped at his cheek. Had he spilled something?  
  
"Matt, would you tell me if I had suddenly turned bright blue or something?"  
  
"No," Matt said, voice still intensely amused, sipping at the mug.  
  
Foggy gaped at him for a microsecond and cracked up hard alongside Matt, the two of them framed in the late-morning sunshine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from "Relax" by Ellen Bass, here: http://readpoems.tumblr.com/post/49847782702/relax-ellen-bass


	80. then she eats the strawberry

 

Matt read over the contract Foggy's hammered out, carefully.

_In the event of any death or other long-term medical condition that renders Franklin Nelson unable to care for or own slave number 556682394441, the ownership of slave number 556682394441 will transfer to Anna Esther Rosenthal for the period that Franklin Nelson was not able to care for or own slave number 556682394441_.

It read like a legally binding agreement. Matt read over the stipulations for 'in the event of temporary power of ownership' and blinked to himself in surprise.

Foggy specified that Anna had to feed him, clothe him, keep him sheltered and as safe as possible from the environment, give him adequate medical care, continue his education at Columbia if at all possible, never physically hurt him, not put him in any serious danger, never have any form of sexual contact with Matt at all, and not sell him.

Matt shook out his fingers, and read it all over again.

It was water-tight, as far as he could tell. And incredibly, incredibly careful and protective.

Matt blinked and nodded. "It seems good," he said to Foggy. What a tiny, inadequate word. "Thank you, Foggy," and he leaned down and kissed Foggy's hands on the table, because he couldn't express how good it was, couldn't even comprehend the scale.

It was a little like how any really large number--say, a billion--seemed not exactly real, because you couldn't understand the scale. This--kindness and the enormity of it slipped through his palms like water.

Foggy sounded pleased as he handed over the copy of it that was print over to Anna. "Seem good to you, too?"

Matt held still. He couldn't be sure that the Braille and the print versions matched--but it seemed probable. Foggy hadn't once used his blindness to trick him, had never asked him to do something impossible with it, or been angry at him for not being able to read a normal newspaper or tell what color something was. Foggy _guided_ him, and let him have a cane, and told him when his clothes didn't match.

(Mostly they did. Matt wore, mostly, dark blue and dark red and gray and black. Sometimes white. He had a dark purple sweater, and that one scarf that Foggy had described to Matt as 'red and green tartan', and he'd checked multiple times with Foggy and Bee which ones were which colors, because some of them were too similar in cut and texture to otherwise differentiate them. Matt wasn't actually sure what tartan was anymore, couldn't remember the explanation of it his trainers had given him, but he hadn't pressed.)

Foggy also told him what color something was if Matt had forgotten his organizing system, and how people looked, and described things. Sometimes he even went and got things for Matt, if it was in the crowded Nelson pantry or cupboards or fridge, where the locations of things shifted like sand dunes.

Matt wasn't as worried as he would have been with anyone else.

Anna hmm'd and ahh'd and nodded. "This seems quite thorough," she remarked, and signed. "Now don't worry," she said, to Matt, and it was still surprising how often she and the Nelsons talked _to_ him and not _at_ him.

"I think you're something of a hero for how much you've helped out my son. And a kind, smart boy besides. And I know, about as much as I think I can even know, that you're in something of a bind. But helping people is my job, you know, and I'm quite good at it. I like to think you'd be okay, if the worst happened. None of my own children have died or gotten seriously hurt, after all."

Matt blinked and filed that away for more analysis. "Thank you, Anna," he said, wishing he could call her ma'am. It seemed far more proper.

"And also," Foggy said. "Um. I was thinking--for stuff like, say, I got appendicitis like Candace did and was only in the hospital for a couple of days, I think it might just be better to have a thing where you didn't have to immediately go with Anna, you could just go back to our apartment and be there or make sure you were okay. Stuff like that. That sound good to you?"

Matt tried to puzzle through it, and then understood completely. Foggy wanted to make sure that Matt would only be Anna's if it was really, really physically necessary. He was being appropriately possessive and yet--yet--his possessiveness was also about genuinely _caring_ for Matt as much as caring for his own emotions. He wanted Matt to be very much only _his_ just as much because he felt that only he could care for Matt the way he thought Matt should be cared for. "Yes, Foggy," Matt said.

"Great," Foggy said. "I should totally put that in writing, right, for you to carry around and stuff like that? In case of an emergency. It can go in your oh-shit-kit."

"My--?" Matt asked without thinking, confused.

"Oh, hell," Foggy sounded upset. "Oh, I totally forgot, uh, we have these little emergency kits that are in our bags and with us all the time, it's stuff like cash and a first-aid kit and CPR breathing masks and a back-up phone and spoons and a pocket knife and granola bars and stuff. I'll get you one," and Foggy got up and started grabbing things.

Matt sat, alone, with Anna.

The silence swelled up like a balloon, and like most balloons, it was burst. Anna said, "So I hear you like cats? How do you feel about Caligula?"

Matt tried to find the trap, but he couldn't hear any. Neither Anna nor Foggy seemed the type to forbid him from petting Candace's cat, and Candace thought it was 'adorable' to watch them interact.

"He's an excellent cat," Matt said, hoping that would be that.

"And my son?"

Matt leaned backwards. How was he supposed to answer _that_?

He came up with, "Foggy is the kindest owner I've ever had, Anna," and he tried to sound as deferential as he can, infuse _Anna_ with the proper respect. She's his owner's mother, his real mother, and he needs her favor.

She sat there and made another soft noise, and Foggy came back, bounding over, with a soft thing in his hands that he thrust out to Matt.

"Here," Foggy said, "And I'll, uh, at home we can work out what emergency orders or proof of whatever you should have in there so that the police or whoever don't hassle you."

"Thank you, Foggy," Matt murmured, and took it, and then they went to go back home. Matt was looking forward to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also comes from "Relax" by Ellen Bass.


	81. live in the along

It's awkward, and a work in progress, but by the time it's evening, Foggy has a working document on the care and feeding of Matt up.

He doesn't actually title it that--Matt might appreciate the title, he had a dark sense of humor, but Anna probably wouldn't--but it is, in essence, a guide to how to take care of Matt, in case anything bad ever happens to Foggy.

_You absolutely cannot ever ignore him,_ is right at the top. _He's not super introverted, but he does need space, but even more than that, don't ignore him, to him it's worse than being whipped, you can't do that to him. Talk to him, and hug him sometimes, but not too much._

_He's also really, really into the way he thinks of himself as not a person and he doesn't want to be a person, so don't push too hard to try to make him understand that he already is one, he'll freak out or just blandly agree with you and it won't help. Be nice to him no matter what he says about himself._

_Also, on that topic--I know it's kind of strange how he kisses people's hands to say thank you, but it's really just how he shows it, it's more genuine, and it makes him feel better to do it, so just let him._

_Sometimes he'll be really freaked out and if you let him just sort of kneel for a while he'll calm down, and it's not fun to see but it's a thing that works for him, so just don't freak out yourself about it, it's fine. Unless he has a flashback, and if he does you can just help ground him a bit, and then he'll be okay._

_He likes cooking and loves cooking shows and needs audio description to understand it all the way, and if he's eating something you might have to remind him that he doesn't have to eat all of it in one sitting or eat it if he doesn't like it. And if he cooks for you, *eat it*, it doesn't matter what it was, if you don't like it he'll be crushed and hate himself and it's horrible._

_Also, you have to make sure he knows that his likes and things matter, because otherwise he'll never mention them, ever, and you won't guess that anything's wrong. Make sure to get his before you put in yours, and if he's hesitating too hard, you can suggest things or narrow down the choices but not too often, and you'll need to tell him a lot that you want his honest opinion and real preference and that it's fine to disagree with your or have different tastes._

_And you have to spell out things for him that's it's okay for him to sleep in his own bed, take a shower, drink coffee, eat whenever he's hungry, start a conversation, use his cane to get around, things like that._

_And you have to make sure he's not too scared about giving him things. And not just things that are genuinely nice, like cake, but things that are just the kind of things people get because they're people. Like beds. He gets nervous if there's no justification for him getting good things--I tell him it's a reward for being alive and living through the horrific shit he's lived through, and that works. Use that too._

_He needs nice things. A lot of blankets, and his clothes have to be soft and be muted or dark colors so that he'll match, and strawberries--and you have to tell him that those things are *his* and his alone or else he'll never touch them. And don't ever touch his bed. Seriously, if he's on his bed, leave him alone, don't bug him or ask him to do anything or touch him or any of the things on the bed._

_And when he brings up his past you can't freak out too much or get angry because he thinks it's his fault or doesn't understand why you're angry, so just hug him afterwards, and don't ever think less of him for anything he's done, it's how he's survived, and that's the most important part._

Foggy sits back and sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He shares it with Anna, and makes sure the email notification for her also says that it's about how to take care of Matt in case anything happens to Foggy.

Then he sits there and feels vaguely guilty, because he keeps making it sound like Matt's a kid, and he's not. He's not helpless or stupid, he's just...he's been made, specifically, into being dependent on his owner for so many things that Foggy takes for granted, and Foggy worries that he's somehow making it worse.

But with him, Matt's making more and more of his own decisions and choices. That has to be better for him.

\--

"Foggy?" Matt asked, derailing his train of thought.

"Yeah?" Foggy said, turning to look at him on reflex. That, and it seemed politer.

"I don't know which of these bills are which denomination," Matt said, holding out the stack of bills from the oh-shit-kit.

"Oh," Foggy said. "Um. Should I--how would you know?"

"If they were to be sorted into stacks, I could then fold them and store them like that, Foggy," Matt explained.

"Oh. Okay, here," and Foggy took the bills and sorted them.

"Okay, so from left to right," and he gently tapped the table with his hand at where the leftmost stack was, "There's ones, then fives, then tens, then the twenty. And you can, uh, read the coins?"

"Yes, Foggy," Matt said, smiling, reaching out and folding up the bills. He paused and then asked, "Are there supposed to be a total of fifty-three dollars in bills here?"

"Yeah," Foggy said, and then something occurred to him. "I totally haven't given you any money, have I? Fuck."

Matt tilted his head. "It's fine--"

"No, no, it's not fine, let me, uh--okay. Okay. Let's work this out. How about you get half the leftover fun stuff part of the budget each month, and, and, I think there's six hundred left from the extra cash Rosalind gave me to get you 'accessories', so that too?"

Matt looked like he'd just been hit in the face with a pie--completely shocked. "I--"

"And I don't care about how you spend it," Foggy said, and then reconsidered, because Matt could hear lies and that wasn't strictly true, "As long as it's not meth or a giraffe or something. We don't have space for a giraffe."

Matt ducked his head and smiled at the joke. "It could live outside," he joked back.

"How would it cope with the winter?"

"We'd knit it sweaters," Matt said, and Foggy laughed. "Beautiful, beautiful custom sweaters," and Foggy laughed harder.

"Okay," he said eventually. "But yeah, let me get that set up. Obviously the account can't be in your name, but I'll get it so that it's got its own debit card, and a checkings and savings, and shift around the money straight to checking, and get the statement for it monthly in a different envelope, and I will never ever check it. Unless you're buying meth."

Matt's face twitched and he laughed softly, and then bent over and kissed both of Foggy's hands, face beatific.

\--

Matt was beyond happy with this new, bizarre development.

Sometimes slaves could be trusted with some amounts of money, and even some of them got an allowance, but never _half_ of the entire household's indulgences budget. Matt himself had certainly never been given any more than twenty dollars at any one time, but now he had fifty-three in the emergency kit and Foggy promised to get him _more_ , in an account just for him.

It felt strange to think about, the idea of buying something just for himself, but it was exciting, too. Matt thought and thought about what to get, what he wanted, and decided that if he hadn't earned a proper kneeling cushion by Christmas, he might dare to get one for himself. Not a really good one--if he didn't earn a really good one, then he didn't deserve it, and that was that--but something that wouldn't involve putting a pillow or a couch cushion on the floor. It would make it even more comfortable for the times when he needed to kneel or else he felt like he would fall apart into nothingness.

\--

Foggy added just one more thing to his guide for taking care of Matt before his next therapy session:

_Don't ever, ever let him anywhere near his trainers. Their names are Winter and Summer, and they're the ones that fucked him up so much in the first place. They seem charming and nice and concerned for him, but they're the ones that taught him that he wasn't a person._   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also from Gwendolyn Brooks's "Speech to the Young".


	82. I think I made you up inside my head

Foggy seemed anxious the morning of his next therapy session, so Matt made apple pancakes.  
  
It was very nice to be back in their apartment, alone, and be sleeping there. They of course went back to the Nelsons' during the day, but all the same, being allowed to sleep in his bed and not being woken up, heart pounding, by the sounds of Anna and Edward having sex or Candace giggling to herself or Caligula scraping wood or knocking over glasses was really rather nice.  
  
And besides, this way Foggy didn't seem to be as subtly anxious about Matt. Matt understood why--he was worried that his family might do something to accidentally damage his property, and Matt was Foggy's precious doll, of course he was protective of him. But all the same, the most unpleasant thing the Nelsons actually did was the way Candace casually flirted with Matt, or looked him up and down appreciatively (he could tell by her breaths and heartbeat and the way she licked her lips), and that still hadn't lead to anything more.  
  
Matt had resolved to tell Foggy, to get him, if Candace tried to use him. Foggy was very upset by the idea of anyone having sex with Matt, and he wasn't about to let his owner's sister use him in a power play. Instead, Matt decided to get out of whatever situation could arise as gracefully as possible, and if necessary, scream.  
  
Bee was also still there, though Anna had assured them that one of Foggy's uncles was looking into a good place for them to rent as soon as they could, so they could 'get their feet on the ground'. And while it was difficult to not flinch every time Bee nudged him like they used to, or to defer to all their opinions as a free person, he was still glad they were free. Despite the horrific, selfish jealousy that curdled in his veins like so much clotted coffee creamer whenever he had to respect them when the two of them used to be equals, it was still better that they were free.  
  
Soon the apple pancakes--and Matt had made them more European-style, with the slices of cored apple directly inside the batter, and sprinkled cinnamon sugar on top--were hot and ready, and Foggy ate them, and said they were delicious, but then frowned.  
  
Matt tensed and waited.  
  
"Matt," Foggy said, and then he was suddenly very upset, "I--I just wanted to let you know, I don't blame you for anything, okay? I don't."  
  
Matt blinked. That was ominous. "Yes, Foggy," he said automatically, trying to figure out what he'd done wrong. Was Foggy talking about how Matt had imitated a free person?  
  
And why would Foggy _blame_ anyone for that, anyway? It had been Matt's attempt to be obedient and useful and desired, so it had been Matt's fault in a way, but Foggy was the owner. He had all the power. If he had expressed his wishes in a clear way from the _beginning_ , instead of treating Matt like a leper, none of that would have happened.  
  
Matt stiffed as he realized he was angry at Foggy, which was neither appropriate nor safe. Owners were always correct, and it was not Matt's place to find them wrong, not outside of very specific circumstances. Certainly he wasn't supposed to be angry at how they'd chosen to give him orders. That was insolent beyond words.  
  
Matt chewed on the inside of his cheek. He'd have to take care of his thoughts while Foggy was at therapy. Both of them fixing themselves at the same time.  
  
\--  
  
Foggy walked into therapy, feeling so sick he grabbed the trash can and pulled it in-between his knees before he said anything.  
  
Miriam looked mildly alarmed. "Are you okay, Foggy?" she asked.  
  
"No," Foggy said, and winced. "I--it's not going to be fun, today," and he almost broke into hysterical laughter at the understatement.  
  
He had to tell her that he had raped Matt. He couldn't lie to her about that, and how was she supposed to help him make sure he never did it again if he kept it a secret from her?  
  
Foggy gulped, and made himself start talking, but Miriam gently interrupted him.  
  
"Before we begin," she said. "I'd like to first hear about your attempts at better self-care, and to offer a piece of advice about how to keep a better balance between your relationship with Matt and the rest of your life."  
  
Foggy blinked but told her, slowly, "Me and Matt had a good day. We went out and got things for bubble baths and fuzzy pajamas and junk food, and basically had a movie night. It was great," and he smiled at the memory. "We ended up cuddling half the night, and then Matt actually woke me up when my dick got hard," and then he winced at how that sounded.  
  
"Sounds like a good way for you to destress your entire relationship," she said mildly.  
  
"Yeah," Foggy said. "I just--I want Matt to be _happy_ , you know? I want him to be happy. That's my goal, now."  
  
"I see," she said, but made it sound neutral. "Now, you've mentioned that your relationship with Matt can also be stressful?"  
  
"Yeah," Foggy said. "But that's--it's not _his_ fault, and before you say anything I am _not_ getting rid of him, that would be completely unconscionable, absolutely never."  
  
Miriam nodded and noted it down. "That's quite understandable," she said. "Now, even in relationships where both parties are making a good-faith effort to make it as easy as possible, it can be very difficult to keep a good balance between the relationship and the rest of one's life. One way to make sure that this doesn't result in a severe imbalance, which can cause resentment and destruction of the relationship, is to find something to do as a hobby that has nothing to do with the other person or the relationship in general."  
  
Foggy frowned. "You're saying I need time off from Matt?"  
  
"I'm saying that if you end up devoting your whole life to him, you may find that you end up having nothing left to give," she said gently. "It's not a sign of love to destroy yourself for the person you love. It's not healthy to have everything in your life be about one relationship."  
  
Foggy sighed. It was true, and he knew it. And he couldn't afford to burn out and leave Matt in the cold.  
  
"Okay," he said, and thought about it. "Maybe I could re-learn crochet or something," he said slowly, thinking it over. "Make some baby hats for my cousins, or even the homeless shelter. Or the hospital."  
  
"That sounds sensible," Miriam said. "Do you think having to be accountable for the hobby would help you?"  
  
Foggy blinked. "What? You mean, like, having to do at least thirty minutes of it a day?"  
  
"Not that regimented, probably," Miriam said. "But you might find it helpful to have it be a sort of theraputic assignment, and be asked about how much you've done each session. That way, you won't forget, and it might help encourage you to keep it up."  
  
Foggy thought about it. "I'll try it for a bit," he said. "But, uh, if that gets to be too much like homework--"  
  
"Then we'll stop with the accountability aspect," she said. "And it doesn't have to be crochet. I'd just think it wise if you could try to do this thing without Matt at least once a day."  
  
Foggy bit his lip and nodded, and then put it on his google calendar to go visit JoAnn's or something after this session. Might as well get cracking. He hadn't actually done crochet since he was seven and in a fit of childhood sexism declared it for girls and thus stupid.  
  
"Now," Dr Miriam said, leaning back. "Was there something else specific you wanted to talk about with me?"  
  
Foggy took a deep breath. Time to face the music.  
  
"I raped Matt," he said, and the momentary look of confusion that flitted across her face made him want to scream, because of _course_ she was confused, Matt wasn't a person to her, he was a slave.  
  
"I fucked him, I had sex with him three times, and I didn't realize that he was going along with it, doing all of it, just because he thought that if he didn't I'd--beat him or sell him or worse, I don't even know what worse is--"  
  
Except that he did. In Matt's own words, being ignored was the worst.  
  
Foggy grabbed at his hair, yanking it back. "I just--I was so fucking stupid, I thought that because _he_ came onto me, that it was real, it was him pulling off that, that servile weird mask, coming out of that slave headspace, but that really is his whole headspace anyway, he was right, there isn't any free person hiding inside of him for me to _free_ like some fucking idiot, he was right, I'm not his white knight, oh god," and Matt's words to Devyn rung in his ears, harsh and cold.  
  
_You think your guilt, your stupid worthless guilt, you think I actually want to hear it, you think I care about any of your utterly insignificant feelings_ and _You're as much a part of it as the people who never buy a slave but rent them from your friends, or the people who buy us but feed us most of the time, or the people who buy cinderellas and then re-enslave them at the end of their midnight balls_ and _None of your guilt matters. It doesn't mean anything to me. You're not important. You are not my white knight. All you are is another person who feeds the machine that grinds us up and spits us out_.  
  
Shit, shit, how much of that was really directed at _Foggy_? Fuck. Fuck!  
  
Foggy's brain threw the sound of Matt crying in the bathroom at him, viciously, and how Foggy had been _relieved_ because it meant Matt had real feelings and was a person--  
  
Foggy threw up into the trashcan, his hair yanked back, gasping and sobbing and thinking about how much he'd hurt Matt, how Matt had squeezed his eyes shut when Foggy blew him and how Matt thought having his fingernails being ripped out was better than sex and how Matt had told him, looking earnestly confused, that he'd get used to it again and then it wouldn't be so bad--  
  
Foggy retched and cried and dry-heaved, barely able to hear anything above the screaming tornado of memories and regrets, all of them made of every one of Matt's flinches and twitches and scared toes and tense back.

It took a while for him to realize Miriam was talking to him, her voice low and soothing, and was saying that she was going to give him a blanket, and was wrapping it around him.  
  
It was heavy, and soft, and eventually Foggy spat out the last of the acid and bile and spit, and leaned back, pushing the trashcan away.  
  
"I'll have Dylan take that out," Miriam said, and put it outside the office. "And here's some tissues and gum."  
  
Foggy used the tissues, now feeling embarrassed and disgusting, and chewed and spat out the gum.  
  
"Fuck," he said. "Fuck, I'm sorry, I really didn't mean to do that--"  
  
"It's quite alright," she said. "You are not the first patient to vomit in my office. It's a fairly uncontrollable physiological response to stress."  
  
Foggy wiped off his face more. "I just, I hurt Matt so much," he said. "I didn't know, I had no idea, and the whole time, I didn't let myself realize it because I had no idea I could be a rapist," and that felt like the fundamental truth. "I didn't think I'd ever do that. I thought--I didn't think I could lie to myself like that."  
  
Miriam asked, gentle, "I don't think I understand what you mean," she said. "It sounds to me so far like it was a very understandable mistake to make. Often when people initiate sex, it means they are consenting."  
  
"Yeah, well, not when they don't even think they're people," Foggy snapped, leaning back into the chair. "Matt--I thought that all of his...everything.." and he gestured wildly, "I thought it was all a front, or some sort of...leftovers. Or that he was just trying to creep me out, or that Rosalind had told him to act like that to fuck with me, or, I don't even know. I thought that when he kissed me that first time, that it was his real personality breaking through, that he was, I dunno, reclaiming his body or asserting his autonomy or something dumb.  
  
"I had no idea--I didn't let myself think," Foggy corrected, "That it was just to make me happy. Because he was hard, and he came, and, and I wasn't topping, as if that makes any fucking difference, as if tops can't be raped," and he put his head in his hands, moaning. God, he'd thought he'd _learned_ these things in college, all those classes where they'd gone over and deconstructed rape myths, and here he was, repeating them.  
  
"I didn't have any idea who Matt really was, or what he was doing. And I should have noticed it earlier, or, or stopped him, or made us both slow down, but I thought with my dick and with my stupid fucking fantasies about slaves fucking their masters, and I raped him.  
  
"And I can't--I can't ever trust myself with him ever again, not really, and I don't know if I can ever have sex with anyone now, because what if I just fool myself and rape someone else? If I can ignore that he didn't even say a real _yes I want this_ the first time when I asked him, how can I ever be safe around anyone?"  
  
Miriam said, calmly still, "Do you think you're in danger of having any unwanted sexual contact with Matt still? Or any person?"  
  
Foggy gritted his teeth at her subtle separation of _Matt_ from _people_ , but it was a fair question. "I don't--I told him, no sex, it's a house rule, nobody has sex in the apartment and he doesn't have sex ever, he knows that now, and I tell him every time he's uncertain, and, and when we slept in the same bed I told him to wake me up if I ever got hard spooning him--"  
  
She looked faintly puzzled by that, so Foggy clarified. "I--he likes sleeping in the same bed, it's probably some fucked-up slurry of how it's just nice human contact and some bullshit about sleeping in your master's bed is the ultimate honor or something crazy and evil like that. And I do too, I guess. He's warm and if he's sleeping right there I can't worry that he's dead."  
  
She noted that down. "That makes a lot of sense. Do you two always sleep in the same bed?"  
  
"No, he has his own back home--at our apartment. And it's really his, I've never touched it or anything, that's his safe space, I'm never going to intrude on it."  
  
Miriam nodded. "Sounds sensible. I have a question, Foggy, if you feel up to answering it, before you go on."  
  
"Yeah?" Foggy said, dreading it.  
  
"Would you have had any sex with Matt if you had known it wasn't wanted? If you knew his real motivations?"  
  
" _ **No**!_ " Foggy near-screamed. "No, no, I never would have done anything, I never, I couldn't, I wouldn't ever do that to anyone--"  
  
Except that he had.  
  
"Except, I--I did. I did. I did something I never would have done to anyone to the person I love," and Foggy felt shattered, crushed, broken.  
  
Miriam leaned forward. "From what you've told me, Foggy," she said, "This wasn't deliberately malicious. Now, I won't say that your feelings of guilt or your assessment of it is incorrect. What I will say is that there are healthier and more productive ways to deal with guilt and make amends for hurting others, even very seriously harming them as you believe you have done. Are you religious in any way?"  
  
"Uh, Anna--my stepmom--my _real_ mom--sort of--it's complicated--she's sort of Jewish," Foggy said. "Dad was Christian, I think, but he literally never goes to church or talks about it. He was kind of in a cult as a kid. It fucked him up."  
  
Miriam nodded. "If you want you, you could talk to Anna about how Judaism handles forgiveness and making amends. From my own knowledge and participation in religion--I'm Jewish, but I've dabbled in many other faiths--, I can tell you that there's more than one way of thinking about forgiveness that you might find useful. For example, in some religions, forgiveness is only able to be granted after you go through a very specific process, and if the person doesn't, the victim of harm is not allowed to forgive the person who harmed them."  
  
Foggy blinked. "Really?" he said. That sounded--well, backwards, but in kind of a good way. Wasn't forgiveness supposed to be about how the victim felt about the thing?  
  
"Indeed. It could be a way for you to help deal with this guilt. Of course, I'm not a rabbi, or any other religious leader, but I could help put you in touch with some rabbis or other religious mentors, who may be able to help you understand more about how to resolve this mistake and form a plan to help make up for the harm you feel you've done Matt, or Anna could."  
  
Foggy thought about it, and then shook his head. "Matt couldn't--Matt doesn't even see it as rape, probably," and he felt cold and gutted at the thought. "He suggested I start it up again, but just let him lie there and think of England next time. He said it wouldn't be so horrible after a while because he'd get used to it."  
  
Miriam wrote that down. "That does make it more difficult to make amends, when one party doesn't see anything that happened as harmful in the first place," she said.  
  
"Now, Foggy, before you have to leave, I have some questions for you."  
  
Foggy looked at her.  
  
"You're a law student, correct?"  
  
He nodded.  
  
"Are you familiar with the concept of mitigating circumstances?"  
  
Foggy glared at Miriam. "I don't believe in mitigating circumstances for rape," he said flatly. "I knew by sophomore year in college that there's no excuses for rape. None. It's all just smoke and mirrors meant to help rapists get away with it. Fuck that. I won't sell out like that."  
  
"That's a very harsh view," she said mildly. "Is that a useful framework for living with yourself now?"  
  
"I don't give a fuck if it's _useful_ ," Foggy snapped. "It's true. And I won't be some wishy-washy 'well maaaaybe he was aaaaasking for it' piece of trash. I have too much respect for other people to do that."  
  
Miriam wrote it down. "Well," she said. "I think this has been a good session in terms of putting things into words that I don't think you've done before."  
  
Foggy breathed in and out slowly. "Yeah, I guess," he said. "I can't tell Anna or anyone else about that. God."  
  
"That's quite understandable," she said. "Now, for my own peace of mind, what do you plan to do in-between today and our next session in four days?"  
  
Foggy thought about it. "I'm going to JoAnn's and I'm going to get the things to make some baby hats," he decided. "They can't be too difficult. And then I'll give them to the hospital or some place for Christmas. And I'm going to go get Matt something nice, like chocolate bark or something, and them I'm going to go home and make sure he understands that I'm sorry for raping him, and that it was wrong of me to do that, and then I'm going to crochet and go over to Dad's and watch something with my family, including Matt, because he's just as important to me as them."  
  
Miriam nodded. "Before you go," she said, "If you feel any desire to harm yourself or others, please call me, or Anna, or anyone else you feel could possibly help you. Here is a list of very good hotlines if you feel you'd rather talk to a stranger. Some can be internet-messaged instead."  
  
Foggy took the booklet from her hand.  
  
"Thanks," he said, and stood up. "I won't do anything stupid. Matt needs me," and he left, determined, forgetting entirely that Matt couldn't be pushed too hard to think of what was done to him as wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from Sylvia Plath's "Mad Girl's Love Song", here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/121605605094/mad-girls-love-song


	83. do you think you could be that good and strong? yes, yes, you think, but you’re probably wrong.

Matt had, in retrospect, been needing this for a while.  
  
He knelt, not naked, but still cold, on the kitchen floor, head lowered to press into the linoleum, collar tightened to near-choking, two toes dislocated, and thought and thought, meditating away his anger.   
  
Anger against free people was stupid at best. Anger against owners was unacceptably inappropriate. It was disgusting, it was offensive, it was beneath his dignity.  
  
Matt refused to be the sort of insolent, poorly trained, good-for-farm-hands-only slave that got mad at his owners for how they treated him. So he thought about anger, and went down into the deep cave with the lake, and cleansed himself of his revolting thoughts about how Foggy had no right to blame Matt for his own mistakes.  
  
And right after he surfaced and dislocated two toes, using the pain to mend the guilt and soothe away the terror, drive home the lesson that _you cannot be angry at your owner_ , he heard Foggy walking with what sounded like shopping bags into the building.  
  
Matt dithered over whether to put the toes back in, and moved to sit up and hide them instead--the more pain, the better the lesson was ground in to him, like spices ground to a powder in a mortar and pestle--so that when Foggy came back, he was resting his hands on his thighs, forcibly relaxing his face. No need to stress his owner out any more.  
  
"Matt," Foggy said urgently. "Matt--I need to talk to you. I need you to understand something."  
  
Matt tilted his head, showing as best he could that he was listening.  
  
"Matt, I'm sorry," and Matt's veins flooded with ice water. "Matt, I need--I need to apologize to you for, for what I did, when--earlier--"  
  
Matt blinked. "When you used me?" he asked, trying to clarify.  
  
"When I _raped_ you!" Foggy cried out.  
  
Matt sucked in a deep breath and made himself stay calm. It wouldn't do to be angry about this. He'd just have to agree, like he did with all the things owners said that weren't necessarily correct.  
  
"It's okay, Foggy," he offered up gently. "I'm okay. I'm not in any danger," and Foggy made a quiet angry noise.   
  
"You--Matt--fuck--" Foggy said, grabbing at his hair angrily, and Matt went still and braced himself for anything--words or restrictions or blows, anything at all.   
  
"Matt," Foggy eventually said. "I don't understand why you don't believe me."  
  
"I believe you, Foggy," Matt said back.  
  
"No, you're just _saying_ that," Foggy snapped. "You--fuck--what about it isn't rape? You _look_ disbelieving!"  
  
Matt frowned to himself internally. He'd have to work on facial expression control.  
  
But if Foggy wanted his real, honest reasoning, he could give it. "Rape is sexual contact of a person without consent. I'm not a person, Foggy," and hoped that simple, succint phrasing would help.  
  
It didn't. Foggy made a noise of frustration and anger and there was a sound of slapping, Matt waited to feel the sting properly, to apologize for not agreeing with his owner--  
  
Except Foggy hadn't slapped him. He'd slapped himself, on the face, hard, and was groaning like a slave who'd been beaten. "Matt--shit--what is it going to take to make you understand that that's wrong?"  
  
 _Nothing you can do will make me think that,_ Matt thought to himself, and then caught himself before he said it out loud. Good lord, what was wrong with him?  
  
Instead he thought, _my owner is right and I am wrong; when we conflict, I must change to fit my owner's desires_ and placed his hands open on his thighs, making his posture change.   
  
"I apologize for upsetting you--"  
  
Foggy sighed heavily. Matt took the hint and shut up, the waters inside him stirring, rippling dangerously.  
  
 _Don't get angry_ , he thought at himself. _Don't get angry. Get smart. Be intelligent about this. Maybe you can swing a trip to Fogwell's this evening_.   
  
Matt swallowed and waited.   
  
Eventually, Foggy said, "I just--I need you to know that when, when I raped you--when I had sex with you--I did something horribly wrong to you. Okay? It was wrong. You have to know that."  
  
"Of course, Foggy," Matt said with the tone he'd perfected over the years. Calm and submissive and enough sincerity to convince anyone. He could agree with any asinine idea. Ones like this--that probably made sense in Foggy's axiomatic Marshall-esque worldview--in particular wouldn't be hard.  
  
"Goddamnit, why won't you get _angry_ at me?" Foggy snapped, yanking on his own hair.  
  
Without thinking--without meaning to--Matt's mouth opened and he said, offended pride coming through, "I'm not _that_ poorly trained, Foggy."  
  
Then he doubled over, hands clasped over his mouth, breaking out in fear sweat. God, what was he coming to? The kind of uppity little idiot that had to be broken or else he'd be no use to anyone?  
  
"Matt," Foggy said, breaking the silence. "I'm--I'm going to go to Dad's for a bit. I just can't--I can't. Are you going to be okay here?"  
  
So Matt would have to stay there. That was fine; he could do plenty of workouts inside the apartment. He nodded.  
  
"Okay," Foggy said, and then picked up his shopping bags, turned, and headed out. "I'm not mad," he added before he shut the door. "I'm just--I'm not mad at you."  
  
But that was a lie. Matt heard it, and once Foggy was out of the building, moved and put his toes back in.  
  
Then he started a harsh workout, focusing on getting rid of all his grossly inappropriate emotions. He had it very, very good. He refused to jeopardize his cushy position.

\--

When Foggy got home, still breathing hard, furious at himself for trying too hard to make Matt get angry at him, furious at Matt for lying to him, for disagreeing with him, for talking about himself like that, furious at the whole world that had made any of this possible, he found that Dad and Candace were out.  
  
"They're out at that one terrible noodle place only they like," Anna explained, sitting at the couch, two glasses of a pale liquid in front of her.  
  
"Come and sit down," she said gently. "Take one."  
  
Foggy put down the crochet things--he'd work on it later--and came over and sat down on the couch, suspicious. Alone meetings with Anna, without it being some other activity like bowling or a movie, were inevitably about some huge thing she thought he was fucking up and needed to stop.  
  
Her hair was falling out of its braid bun, and she looked both tired and fond. Also not a good sign. The last time Foggy had seen her like that, he'd been in tenth grade and she'd sat him down to explain that while he could declare her not his Real Mother all he liked, that didn't change the fact that the way he'd been acting to Candace and slacking off in the house and shop was unacceptable.  
  
(There had been the mother--heh--of all screaming fights because of that. And angry crying. And Foggy hadn't spoken to her for six months, but then again, he hadn't talked to Rosalind at all then either, and at the end of the silent fight he'd been doing the dishes and helping out at the shop again, and eventually he'd wished her a good day and then they were okay again, he and Anna.)  
  
Foggy picked up the glass--a small little shot-glass shaped like a skull--and shot it, blinking at how sweet and firey it was.  
  
"Pineapple-habanero rum," she explained at his face. "Now, sit back. You look angry."  
  
"Sometimes," Foggy said, mouth working ahead of his brain, the shot going to it, "I feel like Matt is this bonsai tree, and I'm trying to get him to grow into a redwood like he was supposed to be, but I can't, and I should just...give up."  
  
He turned to look at her, and her lips had tightened.  
  
" _Franklin Edward **Nelson**_ ," she said, a bedrock of rage in every syllable.  
  
Foggy gritted his teeth. This was his least-favorite part of having a mother.  
  
"I cannot believe you," Anna said, sounding shocked and furious. "Matt is a _person_. He is not your project. He is not your _bonsai tree_ , for Christ's sake!"  
  
Foggy's jaw dropped. Anna--Anna _never_ swore--  
  
"Matt is a person who is very severely injured," she said. "From what I can tell, he's walking wounded. But he is _alive_ , and a person, and not a thing for you to fix. Don't you dare talk about him that way, not after he's saved your _life_."  
  
Foggy sucked in a sharp breath. She was right. Fuck. "I just--Mom, you know that he used to be Matt Mur--"  
  
"Stop," she said. "Don't tell me what his name was before unless he's told you that you can."  
  
Foggy blinked. He hadn't considered that. Matt probably wouldn't mind--  
  
Or would he? Who was Foggy to say, really? He hadn't asked, or broached the subject again.  
  
"He's not what he was supposed to be," Foggy said, finally putting that lurking feeling to words. "It's painful."  
  
"Foggy," Anna said. "Matt is himself, and even if he's not what he was originally 'destined' to be, he's still a lovely, smart young man. And how would you know that he's not what he's 'supposed' to be, anyway? Are _you_ who _you_ were originally supposed to be?"  
  
"No," Foggy said, thinking about Rosalind and her plans to have a child as some sort of saving throw. "No, you're right, that's fucked up. Shit."  
  
Anna nodded and took her own shot. "Foggy," she said. "I know that you love Matt very much," and Foggy jolted with shock. She rolled her eyes. "For goodness' sake," she said. "You look at him like your father looks at me in pictures. You made me an entire guide to take care of him emotionally. You let him do things you're not quite comfortable with so that he doesn't get afraid. You protect him from everyone. You love him."  
  
She didn't sound disapproving, or angry about that. Foggy relaxed, some invisible weight off his chest. Thank God.  
  
Anna continued, voice softer now that she'd delivered her scolding. "I know you love him," she said. "And I know it's hard to love someone and see all their scars, know how much they've been hurt. Do you think I haven't wanted to fix your father's pains, or he mine?"  
  
Foggy felt stunned. He didn't really think of his parents as, well, people just like him, who stumbled and fumbled and made their own way up through life.  
  
But, well, they were. And while Foggy really didn't know all the details--Dad's parents were in this weird cult when he was a kid, and they left and took Dad and all their other kids with them when he was fifteen but he wasn't ever quite normal, and then later Dad had been a heroin addict, or something like it, when he'd been with Rosalind, she divorced him and dumped Foggy onto him, and he'd gotten clean and met Anna at a convenience store, he'd fucked up continually all through the courtship but Anna had loved him anyway.  
  
Foggy realized that of course Anna wasn't angry at him for loving Matt. She must have known how it felt to love someone so much you wanted to burn down the world for hurting them.  
  
"It's a normal impulse to want to shield someone from any form of harm," she said. "And to want to go back and undo what other people have inflicted on them. But you can't, Foggy. And you can't try. All you'll do is end up pitying them and resenting them when they don't need you as much. You'll end up making a fake person in your head and trying to mold the real human being in front of you into them, and that's not right. You love who Matt is right now, with all his scars, don't you?"  
  
Foggy felt calm, determined, on the knife's edge. "I just want Matt to be _happy_ ," he said, feeling like nobody understood the depth of it.  
  
"So don't demand it," she said. "And if Matt says things that make you want to _fix_ him, take your own advice and don't ever think less of him for anything he's done."  
  
"That's how he's survived," Foggy said, realizing how he had been starting to slip into being condescending to Matt.  
  
"Indeed," Anna said. "Matt must be a very strong, capable person to live through what he's lived through and still be able to function."  
  
Foggy frowned. "You're right, but. How do you know what he's lived through?"  
  
"Beyond the many hints? The way he constantly expects violence from everyone around him, just as an example? I read his papers."  
  
"Anna!" he said, shocked.  
  
"Foggy!" she imitated him. "I wasn't about to let a stranger that Rosalind gushed over into our home without ensuring that he couldn't be any danger to me, my family, or my home. And he isn't, and I'm quite glad about that."  
  
Foggy sighed and held his head in his hands. He couldn't blame her for that. It was actually really good sense.  
  
"I just--ugh. Matt just doesn't think he's a _person_ , and I can't stand it," he said, leaning into the couch more. "I don't know how to deal with it when he says things like that!"  
  
"I'm supposing the strategy of politely agreeing to disagree won't work?" Anna asked.   
  
"Yeah, no," Foggy said, recalling Matt's polite little 'of course, Foggy' choruses.  
  
"Then perhaps just acknowledge it with a noise and then move on," Anna said. "It is very difficult to both respect a person's right to disagree with you _and_ try to force them to agree with you."  
  
Foggy winced. "Yeah," he said. "I just--god, it's hard sometimes."  
  
"Has Miriam made any good suggestions?"  
  
"She says I should take up something that doesn't have anything to do with Matt," Foggy said, and fished for the crochet supplies.  
  
"That's good advice," Anna said.   
  
"Yeah," Foggy said, and then paused. "Could you--I don't remember how to make hats, and I want to make baby hats for the hospital."  
  
"Okay," Anna said, and smiled. "I don't remember myself, but let's find some good youtube tutorials."  
  
Foggy grinned at her. "Okay," he said. "Sorry about being an ass about Matt earlier."  
  
"It's fine," she said. "Now you've identified the problem. Just make sure you don't suffocate him while you try to protect him, alright? I ran into that problem several times and nearly ruined my marriage."  
  
Foggy nodded. He could do that. If he really loved Matt--and he did, with a kind of steady fire in his limbs and a rush of electricity whenever he thought about how strong, how dignified, how brilliant Matt was--then he had no other choice but to neither suffocate him nor leave him out for the wolves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Sherman Alexie's "Survivorman", here: http://poetry.newgreyhair.com/post/54123482023/survivorman-sherman-alexie


	84. more power than weapons or money or lies

 

Matt lay curled up in bed.

Since Foggy didn't want him doing self-maintenance the normal way, Matt had to do it differently. He had tried to inflict sufficient pain that the endorphin release would be triggered via the workout, but two pulled muscles and an untreated charliehorse, while painful, weren't enough.

So instead, he'd taken a cold shower to aggravate them in the hopes that it would work to aggravate them enough--it hadn't--and gotten re-dressed, tried to do a healing trance for his toes and only managed about fifteen minutes of it, and was lying on top of his covers, eyes shut, trying to get himself into the headspace he needed to be in, trying to make himself remember how to be good.

It was hard when all he wanted to be was angry at Foggy. Matt had managed to figure out why: part of it was that he was annoyed that Foggy was insulting rape victims by classing them in with Matt--

(And even if he had been a person, if Foggy's axioms applied, and all this had still happened to him, it hadn't been rape, rape destroyed people, rape hollowed people out like eyeballs sucked from their sockets, Matt wasn't broken, rape broke people and _Matt wasn't broken_ , he couldn't be, so it was just sex. Sex that hurt, that made him queasy, that was worse than the clean pain of torn-out fingernails--but for all Matt knew, that was just another defect of his, that he hated being used for sex. For all he knew, it was really his fault.)

And part of it was that for all the little things Foggy had done that irritated Matt, that made him repulsively angry, at the same time, some of the anger came from other owners, came from other free people, and Foggy was the only owner he'd ever had that didn't punish him for being angry at free people.

(Matt had been allowed to help insult the free people that Winter hated, had been allowed to hate Stick, but that was it. Some other owners were fine with Matt disliking some free people, so long as he didn't get too far above his station. But only Foggy hadn't caught and punished him for being angry at his owner.)

So, of course, since he hadn't been doing a good enough job at controlling himself, Matt's anger had started to focus in on Foggy as a safe target, which was so stupid it made him want to cry. Foggy was one of the best owners he'd ever had. Foggy was sweet and adorable and gave Matt almost uncountably infinite privileges. Foggy was kind. He could afford to be angry at Foggy even _less_ than with other owners.

But for all Matt's willpower, he hurt too much to move, and it wasn't the kind of pain where he could lean into it and let him make it better, because he didn't even understand precisely what he'd done _wrong_ to make Foggy mad at him.

He'd disagreed with Foggy, and then agreed with him, and both times Foggy had been unsatisfied. Matt knew he could perform either one better, but Foggy didn't even seem to want one or the other.

Matt sighed. _Your owner is right and you are wrong; your owner is to be validated and you disproved; your owner is correct and you are flawed._

He'd just have to do better for Foggy.

Matt's laptop chimed with a new email. Matt frowned and told it to open it--

It was from a b.l from Columbia. Matt searched his brain for who that was and--

Oh. It was from Bee.

He got the email to open, and then listened to the text. It was a link to a Netflix program, and Bee said they should watch it together.

"Transcribe," Matt told the computer, not wanting to plug in the braille keyboard. It would involve too much moving. "I can't do that tonight, Foggy is angry at me, I don't deserve that. Perhaps another time. Thank you. Matt."

He checked to ensure it had transcribed correctly, sent it off, and curled back up, hating himself for being such a defective fuckup.

\--

Foggy eventually came back home, realizing that he probably needed to apologize to Matt, but in Matt's own language.

He wouldn't kiss Matt's hand--somehow, he was pretty sure that was just for slaves to thank owners, and he didn't want to freak out Matt like that--but he did get Anna to stop by a store and get doughnuts. Matt liked pretty much every flavor of doughnuts, he'd found. He'd also grabbed a thing of salted mixed nuts, because he was pretty sure Matt liked those.

He got two dozen--their fridge had the space, he was pretty sure--and also a couple of bottles of organic green apple soda to make up for the fact that he couldn't get Matt any strawberries. All the boxes looked faintly moldy at the bottom to Foggy.

He got into the apartment just fine, and called out, "Hey, Matt!"

"In here, Foggy," Matt called back, voice sounding--strained?

Foggy took a deep breath, grabbed the sodas and the doughnuts, and walked into the bedroom.

Matt was curled up, looking pained.

"You okay?" Foggy asked, scanning, him, trying to see any signs of injury.

There were none, but Matt still looked pained, and considering how he barely reacted to anything, that was a bad sign.

"I have a headache," Matt offered up, looking cautious.

"Oh," Foggy said. He decided to handle it like he did when Candace got like this. "Did you take an advil?"

Matt tilted his head. Shit, had Foggy never clarified that he was allowed to?

"Let me grab you one, and some water," Foggy said decisively, and got both.

"Liquicaps or the small ones?" he asked Matt, who looked like he did whenever Foggy treated him like a human being with decency: shocked.

Matt eventually said, "Your decision, Foggy," and winced at himself for some arcane reason.

Foggy didn't push. He put the liquicaps--easier to swallow--into Matt's hand and the water in the other. Matt obediently swallowed them and drank the water, and then sighed and turned so that he was facing Foggy more on the bed, scrunching up.

It was both adorable and kind of heartbreaking, but then the painkillers apparently worked fast on Matt, because his face relaxed and his posture changed to be more lounging than curled up in agony.

"Thank you, Foggy," Matt murmured, and moved forward to kiss his hand. His lips were so soft.

Foggy pushed away that thought firmly, and said, "So I got you donuts and this apple soda thing, because I was kind of--pushy--earlier."

Matt looked surprised, but took a donut delicately from the box as Foggy held it up in front of him. He picked out a chocolate icing one, and bit into it slowly and delicately.

"Yes, Foggy," he said, and then smiled from ear to ear. "These are so good. Thank you, Foggy," and he went from pained to relaxed.

Foggy watched up, and then picked up his own donut--cream-filling with espresso icing--and sat down to open up his laptop.

Immediately there was an official Slave Bureau email in his inbox. Foggy glared at it; they'd sent him an email after he got Matt and after he got Bee and Rosalind and Winter, respectively, had sent off the paperwork to the Bureau like they had to. Both of them were congratulatory, saying that they noted that he was a new owner and offering links to their official slave-owner's guides.

Foggy had put them in a new folder, mostly for documentation purposes, and opened the new one, sighing irritably. He read it, and then frowned.

"Hey, Matt, this email from the, uh, Bureau of Slavery pieces of shit says that you have to have a medical checkup before the end of the year because of the police report thing, and uh, an 'obedience testing' too?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also comes from Laura Hershey's "You Get Proud By Practicing".


	85. oh taste how sweet and tart  the red juice is, how the tiny seeds crunch between your teeth

"Oh," Matt said, sounding mildly surprised, and then insulted as he went on, "They think I need governmental supervision?"  
  
Foggy looked it over. "They say to report to the 'slave medic and maintenance' center in--shit, that's an hour's drive."   
  
Matt looked, to Foggy, a lot like he had when he'd had hassles registering for certain classes. Annoyed, but not upset or offended.  
  
"They don't even call it an infirmary," Foggy muttered, glaring at his glowing screen. "'Maintenance'. Like you're a car."  
  
"Objects have to be maintained," Matt said, shrugging and taking a sip of the soda, and then smiling at the taste.  
  
Foggy ran a hand through his hair. How did you agree to disagree with someone who didn't think he could disagree with you?  
  
"Matt," he said, trying to think of a way to put it that wasn't pushy but wasn't acquiescing to this dystopian dehumanizing bullshit. "Look, you can disagree with me on this, or anything else, all you want, and it's fine--well, no, it's your _right_ as a _person_ \--to think that you're not a person, to think whatever you want to, but I'm never going to think that, okay? Never. I won't."  
  
Matt's face looked faintly confused, but then he nodded in acknowledgement.   
  
"And also," Foggy said, "I hate shit like this, I hate the way it talks about you like you're--you're--worthless or stupid or shit like that. You're _not_ , you're the opposite--you're--" Foggy grabbed at what he thought about how Matt was whenever his love for him rolled up over him like the ocean.   
  
"You're fucking incredible," he said. "You're smart as hell, smarter than me, you'd be Hermione Granger, and you're--you're so strong. I could not have lived through a quarter of what you have, and you're still strong and you never stop trying. God. Nobody should ever talk about you like you're anything less than amazing, because you are _amazing_."  
  
He looked at Matt, whose skin was actually blushing shyly, and whose face shined with a brilliant light like a sunrise. His smile belonged in one of those art pieces that made whole countries fall in love with him.   
  
Foggy loved Matt, and knew in that moment that this was it for him, nobody else could possibly measure up. Matt was his one and only. He'd never love anybody else like this, and he was just fine with that.  
  
He couldn't do nothing, and so he got up and remembered the rule of _leave Matt alone when he's in his bed, don't touch it, ever_ and instead said, "You wanna--?"  
  
Matt rose from his bed, almost hiding his face and how happy he looked, and climbed into Foggy's bed, wriggling into his arms, beatific and beaming.   
  
Smart move, Nelson.  
  
Foggy held Matt and moved so that he could still be on his laptop, balancing it on Matt's chest, and thought about how to acknowledge Matt's patient, un-humiliated dignity whenever anyone treated him like a slave.  
  
"You've been through these before?" he asked Matt, running a hand through his hair on a gamble.  
  
The risk paid off. Matt went loose and pliable, and was still smiling as he explained, "A few times, Foggy."  
  
"What...what actually happens during them?"  
  
Matt went on, voice matter-of-fact, "The medics perform an exam of the slave, and take a lot of samples--blood, urine, saliva, and if there's infected or open wounds, those too. They ask the owner questions to better ascertain the health, and check reflexes, balance, height and weight. There's a few optional checks that they can do, though if it's a government-ordered exam then they might not be optional."  
  
"Like?" Foggy asked, making sure he wasn't getting angry at Matt for telling him, or talking about it like that. It was probably some sort of coping thing, or else he just couldn't afford to stay shocked at his horrorshow of a society.  
  
"Uh, prostate responsiveness and semen samples, Foggy," Matt said, sounding more tentative.  
  
Foggy didn't let himself think too much about it. "If I can stop them from doing it, I will," he said fiercely, hugging Matt tighter to him. "I won't let anyone hurt you if I can ever help."  
  
Matt smiled and murmured, quietly, teasingly, "It's _my_ job to protect you, Foggy."  
  
"Then let's both do that," Foggy said. "Work together. Be a team. We're good at it when we manage. Remember when Rosalind came over?"  
  
Matt grinned. "Yes, Foggy."  
  
Foggy ran a hand through Matt's hair again. Matt shivered.  
  
"How does that feel?" he asked, just to make sure, and did it again, aware that he was playing with fire.   
  
"So good, Foggy," Matt said, eyes half-lidded, head lolling with pleasure. "Delectable."  
  
Well, that was a ringing endorsement. Foggy did it again and Matt shivered and pressed closer.  
  
"So tell me about the, uh, 'obedience testing'," Foggy prompted. He needed to know, he couldn't walk in forgetting his pants.   
  
"It's a series of commands that they test to ensure slaves can follow them," Matt said. "Kneel, head to the floor, sit up, stand up, come here, stop, knees and head down, hands and knees, talk, shut up, open your mouth, and so on. Usually it's the owner who has to give the commands, and the inspector there just writes down how fast the response time is and how effectively they're carried out. They might have extras now, because it's not a time-check or one done by an auction house."  
  
Foggy breathed in and out, refusing to panic or scream. Staying calm. "We have to do it, don't we?"  
  
"The government can confiscate slaves whose owners don't respond to obedience checks," Matt said. "Or owners who don't comply with government-ordered medical exams and their required sections."  
  
"Fuck. Okay. And I'm guessing we can't half-ass it, either?"  
  
Matt looked offended for a second, like Foggy had said he was stupid or clumsy or something, but righted himself. "Slaves who don't pass obedience checks are then mandated sessions with trainers until the problems are corrected."  
  
Foggy sucked his teeth. Shee-it.   
  
"No," he said firmly. "Then we'll just get it over with and do it and then get the fuck out of there."  
  
Matt nodded. "Okay, Foggy," he said.  
  
"I just--I don't know how I could do that to you," Foggy said. "Do they let me be in the room when the, uh, 'medics' are examining you?"  
  
"Yes, Foggy," Matt said, and then hesitated. Foggy recognized by now that this was when Matt wanted to suggest something but was nervous, so he made an encouraging noise.  
  
Matt went on, "You could--pretend that you were one of those double agents in the, ah, spy movies, Foggy."  
  
"Like James Bond?"  
  
"I was picturing the female agent from the one where she pretended to be Bond's owner," Matt explained. "And he played the part--well, I suppose--but they both understood that in no other circumstances would they be doing it."  
  
Foggy blinked and thought about it. That wasn't a bad strategy. "So you think it might be easier if I was--I dunno, roleplaying I guess--an owner? A more--controlling--" because he didn't think Matt would get the gist of it if he used _violent_ or _evil_. "--owner?"  
  
"It might be easier for you to play a stricter owner, instead of trying to reason with the sort of--cretin--who works for the Slave Bureau," Matt said, face pressed into Foggy's chest. "Still--well, not violent, I don't expect that you'll have to hit me--but still you."  
  
"Just some weird mirrorverse me," Foggy mused to himself. "Okay, that can--I can try that. I guess. Would doing it before Christmas work for you? Maybe in--hey, what about the day before I next went to therapy?"  
  
"That would work, Foggy," Matt said, relaxing again, and then quietly offered, "You may want to practice first? So it's easier, Foggy?"  
  
Not a whole lot would make it easier, he didn't think, but that was still a good idea, so Foggy said, "Sure. Let's do that."  
  
Okay. That was a plan. A fucking terrifying, awful plan, but a plan. Foggy could do things that were terrifying and awful--taking Candace to the hospital once for stitches, just as an example--if he had to, and if he'd practiced beforehand.  
  
He held Matt close, a quiet apology for this whole fucking world.  
  
\--  
  
Matt was so glad that he'd been forgiven. Foggy was so merciful, so sweet. He'd even reassured Matt that he was still his doll, still important, and he wasn't mad at him anymore.  
  
Foggy thought Matt was _incredible_ and _amazing_ and _so strong_ , his heartbeat hadn't skipped once, and it made Matt's face flame in shy pleasure. He loved this. He loved being owned by Foggy. It was so, so nice, a paradise of praise and privilege and good things. He wanted to stay with Foggy forever, be held in his arms when he got too old to be useful, grow alongside him.   
  
They ate more donuts, and drank more of the treat, and Matt verbally eviscerated idiots who decided to make _mashed potato frosting_ on Cupcake Wars--honestly, anyone who baked for a living and was still a complete disaster at it was beyond stupid, they were a mountain of disney lemmings in human skin--and things were so good.   
  
He'd even earned painkillers. Matt wasn't too worried about the obedience testing or the medical exam. He'd lived through them once before and he'd live through them again.   
  
Maybe he'd even ask Foggy if he could, maybe, for the exam and test, sink into that kind of blissful, scalp-tingling headspace where he was just a slave and was just supposed to follow his owner's commands and not think about anything else, not have to be active and responsive and present the way Foggy wanted.   
  
These things were always easier like that.  
  
Matt grinned under his covers, alone and peaceful in his bed, Foggy sleeping, and turned on the creepy podcast to listen to for a while before he slept, too. He wanted to savor how today had turned around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also comes from Ellen Bass's "Relax".


	86. you can't wake up, this is not a dream, you're part of a machine

"Ugh," Foggy moaned the next morning, looking over the 'sample commands' on the page of the crappy Slave Bureau. "Who comes up with this bullshit?"  
  
Matt snorted from his bed. " _Bureaucrats_."  
  
Foggy smiled but then looked back at words. _Stand, kneel, head down, head up, sit up, hands and knees, say thank-you, say you're sorry, speak, shut up, come here, walk here, sit down._ It was worse than the things they made dogs do.  
  
There were also notes that said that the tests tended to have extra sections for more complicated tasks, but that the ones ordered after police reports mostly focused on speed and 'complete acceptance of orders'.  
  
"Fuck these assholes," Foggy muttered, fists clenching as he read on. "God. This is such-- _degrading_ absolute bullshit."  
  
Matt made a noise of polite agreement, but Foggy knew him well enough to tell that it wasn't quite all genuine. He looked over at Matt and contemplated him for a second.  
  
Today seemed to be a lazy day. Matt had gotten up and made them both coffee, but carried his back to bed, and Foggy had made sure to tell Matt he could have any painkillers he wanted whenever he wanted as long as he didn't poison anyone, and Matt had smiled and curled up under his covers again. Foggy wondered if he was sleeping, except that he was still talking.  
  
Foggy himself hadn't actually gotten out of bed except to go to the bathroom and get his laptop out again, and now he was lying, half-propped up, reading the list of sample commands over and over with a mouthful of bile.  
  
"I don't know if I can do this to you," Foggy said.  
  
Matt turned over to face him, and offered up, still sleepy-sounding, "We could, mmm, do a code, maybe, Foggy, if that's alright?"  
  
"Huh?" he asked.  
  
"I could do something to show you I was still okay," Matt said, eyes shut. "That you weren't hurting me, Foggy."  
  
Foggy stared at him and then smiled. Matt was working together with him to get through this, thank god.  
  
"Uh, what would be good?"  
  
Matt shifted to put his head on his arms instead of the pillow directly, and tilted his head in thought.  
  
"I--perhaps a slow blink? Like cats do to indicate trust? I'm not sure if that is very, mm, visually noticeable, though, sorry, Foggy."  
  
Foggy thought about it. "Dude, you're blind, that's not your fault. Uh, let me see if I'd notice?"  
  
Matt blinked slowly and very deliberately. Foggy noticed.  
  
"It's good," he reassured Matt. "It's noticeable once you look for it, but otherwise it doesn't stick out, so they won't notice, probably. That's great, Matt, thanks, we can use that."  
  
Matt smiled. "Thank you, Foggy."  
  
"Okay," Foggy said, and twisted his hands nervously, fiddling with a pen. "I think--fuck--I guess we can try practicing this. Later, though. Fuck."  
  
Matt nodded and shifted again, seeming to doze off. Foggy made sure he was as quiet as a doormouse.  
  
\--  
  
Performing calm relaxation for Foggy was not very pleasant at all.  
  
It was easier than performing other things, but it made Matt uneasy, partially because Foggy emphasized how much he wanted Matt to be honest and forthright, and partially because a part of him really did _want_ to curl up and relax and drift off again.  
  
It made him crave to be petted again, wonder if Foggy would ever kiss him on his collar. Not on the lips--not anymore, Matt didn't think--but just on the back of his neck where it clasped shut. A little brush of lips, the tiniest touch. Matt felt like he would melt.  
  
He pretended to be that loose-limbed and relaxed, pretended to be half-asleep again, and thought about how he was just doing his job, just being good for Foggy. Part of his duties now were to be pliable and calm and happy, to soothe Foggy, and if Matt let his tight, tense fear show, it would just make the whole situation far worse.  
  
Matt wasn't worried about the obedience test. Now that he'd suggested something that he could do to help Foggy actually give him the commands like he had to, he wasn't worried. And besides, the list of commands was never anything actually all that difficult if you were trained correctly, which Matt was. He was a tiny bit out of practice at the fast physical-movement-based commands, but he would overcome that.  
  
He and Foggy were supposed to be a team, after all, Foggy had _said_.

\--

Later on, though, they did have to actually practice.  
  
"Ugh," Foggy said, looking it over. "Shit. Let's just--get this over with, okay?"  
  
Matt nodded. He didn't look afraid, which helped.  
  
Foggy cleared his throat, and made himself say, "Kneel?"  
  
Matt knelt instantly, and slowly blinked at Foggy, deliberately.  
  
Foggy bit his lip and thought about how Matt had said it was how cats showed trust. Matt trusted him. Matt wasn't afraid.  
  
It wasn't as reassuring as it should have been, because Matt wasn't afraid of a lot of things that were objectively terrifying--being a slave, for example, or being told what to do--but it helped. Foggy went on with, "Head, um, down Matt? Please?"  
  
Matt bent his head down to the floor, and Foggy couldn't see his face, but he could see the line of his back, graceful and not tense at all.  
  
He breathed out in relief. He wasn't really hurting him; it was just to get it over with, just to make sure they would leave him and Matt alone. It wasn't real, and Matt knew that. He wasn't really hurting him.  
  
"Sit up, then."  
  
Matt sat up and blinked deliberately at him. Okay. He could do this.  
  
"Hands and--knees."  
  
Matt moved and Foggy almost got an erection from the sight, but instead the shirt rode up just a tiny bit, and Foggy made himself wonder how many times Matt had had to do that, get on his hands and knees and stay there while being hurt, and it deflated his dick like icecubes.  
  
"Say thank you," and Foggy winced. "Shit, you're not a dog."  
  
Matt leaned forward, hands behind his back, and kissed Foggy's hand on his thigh from where he was sitting in his desk chair. That didn't feel so weird anymore, now that Foggy understood that Matt did it sincerely.  
  
"I know I'm not a dog, Foggy," Matt murmured into his hand. "You've never asked me to be a pet."  
  
Foggy blinked rapidly, and then realized it was Matt reassuring him, which felt entirely backwards. But he remembered how Anna had told him to flat-out stop smothering Matt, and he realized that it felt backwards mostly because he thought of Matt as more, well, fragile than he apparently was, and so Foggy cleared his throat and went on.  
  
"Uh, say something."  
  
Matt's lips twitched. " _Etwas, Foggy_ ," he pronounced, sounding like himself. Foggy tilted his head and Matt elaborated, "It's German for 'something', Foggy."  
  
Then Foggy grinned wide. Matt was _teasing_ him, joking about this with him. This was fine. It would be their secret, their in-joke.  
  
"Okay, let's get the rest of this over with. Uh, stop talking."  
  
Matt's mouth closed. His lips were enthralling.  
  
Foggy tore his gaze away and went down the rest of the sample list, picking up the ones he'd missed. Matt kissed his feet, crawled forward, stood up, walked forward, sat down cross-legged, and throughout it all he seemed perfectly calm and unruffled. It soothed Foggy immensely.  
  
"Okay," he said. "Okay, we can do this. We can be double agents."  
  
Matt smiled, but his eyes didn't quite crinkle all the way.  
  
\--  
  
Matt had done well. Now not even Foggy seemed all that worried about the obedience test, which meant he could focus on channeling his anxiety about the medical exam into doing things for the two of them.  
  
Currently, he was creaming butter and sugar for lemon-buttermilk pound cake cupcakes with mango curd filling for the Nelsons, Foggy, and Bee Elle. It sounded delicious to him, and baking really _was_ soothing. He'd only had to reassure Foggy once that he really was doing this because he liked it, and then Foggy had made sure he'd known where all the things were in the Nelsons' kitchen that he needed, he'd gone off to do something with Anna.  
  
Matt made himself examine his anxiety. He wasn't worried that Foggy would realize how much nicer being strict was--Foggy hated even the idea of being a stricter owner. He was, however, abjectly terrified of Foggy realizing just how defective Matt was and deciding he didn't want him anymore, or else chaining him to the bed lest he damage Foggy's property.  
  
Matt didn't mind being blind all that much. It was fine with him. He'd gotten to see sunsets and tigers and his Dad's smiling face, like Stick had said, and then he'd been able to not see Dad's corpse when he found it. It was a good balance.  
  
The problem was that as absolutely value-neutral as blindness was for people, it wasn't so for slaves. Blind people were disabled; blind slaves were defective.  
  
And while most of his owners genuinely didn't mind--Winter never had, had said it was fun to think of ways to work with and around it--, with rare exceptions--Mistress Sharon was annoyed by it sometimes, and Master Pendergrass had declared his gaze creepy and punched him in the face until his sockets swelled his eyes shut--and others appreciated it, licked their lips at the thought--  
  
(Master Viktor kissing Matt's face as he thrust inside him, cooing and calling it the most adorably tragic thing, how Matt couldn't see how lovely he really was, couldn't appreciate the sight of his body with his legs bent and his skin flushed and his sweet soft vulnerable neck, ripe for being squeezed)  
  
(Master Robert saying that even a blind pet would be such a lovely addition to his collection)  
  
(Matt wrenched himself away from that thought with the ease of practice)  
  
Matt was worried about Foggy's reaction. He wasn't just blind, which Foggy seemed mostly fine with; he also had his heightened senses, whose inconvenient side Foggy didn't seem to know about yet.  
  
It was easy for things to taste horrific to Matt, and for fabrics to be not soft enough. It was hard for him to not eavesdrop by accident; it was impossible for an owner to lie to him. Smells, meant to please or set an atmosphere, could make him gag. Sometimes he got incredible headaches, and even migraines, and sometimes he found himself in Elsewhere without having decided to go. He couldn't keep a perfect circadian rhythm, knotted to his owner's, no matter how hard he tried. Even through his sense of touch, he couldn't read print or tell bills apart or choose colors that matched all the time.  
  
He hadn't had a full-blown migraine yet--hadn't woken up vomiting and been unable to even think through the sledgehammer in his skull--but Matt still worried. Foggy might--well, even probably, maybe--actually like those. He seemed to enjoy spoiling Matt with painkillers; giving Matt something for migraines might be just like that.  
  
Or he might be disgusted with Matt for even having those. Or--worse--he might decide he enjoyed taking care of Matt like that so often he'd induce them on purpose, in which case Matt wouldn't be able to go to class or bake or do anything except shake with pain and hope that Foggy would get bored of the game.  
  
Matt added in the sifted cake flour and became aware of Bee Elle standing behind him.  
  
[The other day, were you worried about Foggy reading your browser history or something?]  
  
Matt blinked and shook his head. It was just that slaves who made their owners so upset didn't deserve to have friends.  
  
[Was he standing right there, watching?]  
  
"No," Matt said very quietly, folding in the eggs. "He left me alone."  
  
Bee seemed to _vibrate_ with rage and turned, storming off.  
  
\--  
  
Bee fished out the Notebook.  
  
It wasn't a computer called a Notebook; it was an actual notebook. Reading and writing were hard for them, sometimes near-impossible, especially if they were hungry, but the Notebook was special. It had only been started when they'd become technically a study aid, because neither of the cunt twins cared enough about anything or anyone that wasn't them to look through Bee's belongings.  
  
It contained the only thing that they had had for most of their life: their stories. It had all their stories, jotted down in notes, so that they couldn't forget them. It had important notes about mind games and study strategies and where to hide and which staircase to fall down in case they became pregnant.  
  
(They had been pregnant precisely once--they _knew_ it, somehow, in a strange way--but before they'd gone to throw themselves down the staircase or out the window, the cunt mother of the cunt twins had taken them to the slave medics and they had woken up not-pregnant. They had been so relieved and empty and hating slave medics.)  
  
Now they fumed as they found it. They _liked_ Foggy. He had been consistently nice to them. He had helped _free them_. He was clearly in some sort of infatuation with Matt.  
  
And now he had gotten angry at Matt and told him that he wasn't good enough to get to talk to them and left him _alone_ for masters only knew how long, punishing him with the worst thing for Matt: isolation.  
  
They almost wouldn't have believed it if they hadn't known, a creeping dread up their spine like an electric razor coming up to shave their head, that they hadn't seen Foggy get angry at _Matt_. Foggy hadn't been actually angry at Matt or them the whole time they'd been owned by and lived with him, so they couldn't possibly know how he'd act when he was.  
  
And it made sense in a sick way: Foggy Nelson was the kindest, sweetest, most genuinely pure and lovely owner in the entire world--except when he _wasn't_. Except when you made him angry.  
  
They scribbled down _Foggy Nelson has joined the ranks of the cunts_.  
  
Then they sat back to figure out how to provoke Matt, who was smear-shit-in-your-hair-and-whistle-dixie crazy, too obedient for his own good, who talked like a 'just got a slave' Hallmark card or an embossed fancy-schmancy hoity-toity owner's manual and _wasn't joking_ , into fighting back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from the lyrics of Halsey's "Gasoline".


	87. your guilt is a form of acquiescence in what continues to occur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strong trigger warning for medicalized sexual assault/rape, dehumanization, ableism, dissociation, and forced self-harm.

The drive to the actual building was torture.  
  
Foggy gritted his teeth and looked out the window and tried to not think about how bad this could get. He didn't know what sort of hideous, degrading things they could make him do to Matt--besides the degrading things he already had to do. He didn't know what kind of things they'd say about him, besides that they were the kind of bullshit that made him want to burn down the entire world, kill everyone and start over.  
  
He looked over at Matt, whose face was the blank statue mask he wore when he was really, genuinely afraid, and resolved to stay calm, cool, and collected. He tried to picture the scene from that one James Bond movie--the most recent one--where Moneypenny had had to pretend to be Bond's owner and he her sex slave, tried to draw on Moneypenny's perfect performance.  
  
But Matt still looked afraid, and trying to hide it, so Foggy reached over and gently wrapped his hand around Matt's, lacing their fingers together.  
  
Matt squeezed his hand, and Foggy looked at him even more closely. Matt's lips were deliberately slightly apart, and he was breathing silently. His eyes were the blank slightly-off-center gaze he usually had, and the skin around them was smooth. If it weren't for the most minute twitches in his mouth, and if Foggy didn't know him as well as he did now, he'd have thought that Matt was completely emotionless.  
  
Foggy squeezed back. "It's going to be--well, it's not okay, but I'm not going to let them hurt you, as much as I can help it," because it was a painful trade-off: if he didn't let them hurt Matt at all, they'd kidnap him, and then Matt would _really_ be hurt, and if he let them do just anything, Matt would be hurt and it would be his fault.  
  
Foggy thought about everything Matt liked--absolutely everything--and resolved to not just protect Matt and work with him to get this over and done with as quick as possible, but to also find something else for him to do to apologize for this.  
  
They pulled in and parked in the parking garage.  
  
"All right," Dad said. "See you two in a bit. I've got my sudoku," and he pulled out his sudoku book.  
  
"Thanks for the ride," Foggy said, and climbed out. Matt took his arm and they began to walk together into hell.  
  
\--  
  
Foggy nervously babbled sometimes, and he also had gotten into the habit of describing things to Matt on and off, so he muttered to Matt as they walked into the lobby, "This looks like the kind of place you go to hack into the world government network to stop the aliens, in a movie."  
  
Matt smiled and leaned into him for a second. Foggy turned to smile at him, and then was interrupted by the receptionist.  
  
"Hello, you are?"  
  
"Foggy Nelson," he said. She typed it in and frowned. "Number?" she asked, gesturing to Matt with a pen.  
  
"Uh--" Foggy tried to think. He _knew_ the number, but had forgotten it, and then Matt murmured to Foggy, "Five-five six-six eight-two three-nine four-four-four-one."  
  
The receptionist raised an eyebrow but typed it in. "Alright, modified medical and obedience test, I can see why, looks like it needs a brush-up on its manners," she said disapprovingly, but handed Foggy a clipboard.  
  
"Sign in."  
  
Foggy signed, checking the time on his phone--it was a morning appointment, so he and Matt had the maximum time afterward to go home and do whatever they could to make Matt feel better--and wrote it in.  
  
"Alright," she said. "Wait in the side-room there, please. Your guide will be here in fifteen minutes or so," and went back to the computer.  
  
Foggy went over to the room, Matt still as a statue by his side.  
  
The first thing Foggy noticed after opening the door was the large poster saying _In Order To Save Space, Please Have Slaves Kneel Directly In Front of Chairs, NOT To the Side_.  
  
Foggy gritted his teeth and led Matt to a chair. Almost immediately, however, a voice came from a loudspeaker he hadn't noticed before.  
  
"This is a no-slave seating area," the voice crackled, and when Matt didn't move fast enough, it insisted, "No slaves are permitted to sit in the chairs."  
  
Foggy almost snarled, but then he saw that there were five different little security cameras, so instead he strengthened his resolve and sat down.  
  
Matt obediently knelt in front of Foggy, facing him, still statue-faced.  
  
Foggy chewed over the idea before he decided to just do it, but this seemed to be more soothing than anything else he could actually do, so he took a deep breath and gently ran a hand through Matt's hair.  
  
Matt relaxed a bit, tension seeping out of his back, and leaned in against Foggy's legs. Good choice, then.  
  
Foggy kept his hand on Matt's scalp, which seemed to be loosening some of the tension, and took the minute to glance around at the other people.  
  
There were only three other people in chairs--no, four, one harried-looking woman had her kid sitting in a chair next to her.  
  
She also had a kid who looked about the same age kneeling on the floor. Foggy stared. The poor kid was red-faced and quietly sniffling, and the woman was on her phone, alternately playing Candy Crush and shushing her other kid whenever he made a 'zoom' noise with the airplane he was playing with too loud.  
  
Foggy looked between the two kids and felt an almost irrepressible urge to go over there and--and--he didn't even know, just grab the child with the heavy-looking metal collar around his neck and _run_ , get him away--  
  
Matt leaned into Foggy hard, making him startle and look down.  
  
Matt shook his head very, very discreetly, and mouthed _you can't help him_.  
  
Foggy was almost speechless, full of anger, and the he realized that Matt had started shaking, tensing up again, and his gaze was getting more and more distant and dead-eyed. So he made himself run his hand through Matt's hair again and look back up.  
  
The woman was muttering to the kid on the ground, "We're going to stay for the whole evaluation, and then in two days I'll let you out, and then next time you won't come telling me that you love Daddy's new wife more, _will you_?"  
  
Foggy looked at her with something that felt like heartburn as the kid nodded and sniffled harder, trying to not burst into wails. She was temporarily _enslaving_ her own kid as a _punishment_ , like some sort of demented time-out.  
  
God. What kind of a world did he live in, where people like that even existed?

\--

The other person in the room in a chair was a busy-looking man. Foggy stared at him as he absently stroked the woman kneeling at his feet's hair, never looking up from his newspaper. She was trembling faintly, and there was something over her mouth that looked faintly like the bottom part of a face-mask, except it was in some shimmery, glittery material.

Her collar had spikes on it. Foggy tasted stomach acid as he looked at the collar and not her naked body, not her bruised breasts. He had to look away when he glanced down and saw her hands cuffed in some sort of leather bag over them, rendering them useless. She was whimpering, not even sounding human, more like a human imitating a dog.

Matt shivered against him and Foggy focused on keeping a calm, determined front forward. Matt was right; there wasn't anything Foggy could do at this exact moment to help those people.

But later--when he could--he would. Foggy couldn't just do nothing. He'd have to do it later.

Foggy focused on being Moneypenny, calm and collected and just playing a part, not a real owner, not a real rapist, except that that was what he was: an owner and a rapist. He owned Matt and he'd raped him, however much he had meant to do neither of these things.

He could feel his heart start to pump faster and faster and him start to panic, thinking about how he was just like that man sitting there, he was even running his fingers through his slave's hair the same way, and then Matt nuzzled his leg and Foggy refocused.

Matt lifted his head minutely and blinked slowly at him. It helped. Matt was still there, still present, still trusting Foggy to make it okay, to help him endure this. He wasn't triggering Matt or sending him into flashbacks. Matt was fine; it was just Foggy who felt like he was burning to a crisp in this witches' oven of a room.

Foggy looked at the fourth person in a chair. It was a girl, who looked maybe fifteen, and was chattering to her dad on the phone, explaining how she was totally being responsible and yes dad it's okay she's _totally_ doing fine, see you at home afterwards.

In front of her, kneeling and coldly pissed, was a woman older than the girl, older than Foggy, old-looking as Aunt Imelda. She had gray hair and she was still subordinated to this tiny little teenage girl, who was now taking selfies.

Foggy felt like he had when he discovered that his parents could make mistakes, when he'd been six and Dad had sat him down and explained that the reason he and Rosalind didn't live together like normal parents did on television was that he had made a mistake in marrying her and so had she. He felt like some illusion had been ripped away that he hadn't consciously realized had been there.

The world wasn't just crooked. The law wasn't just incomplete. It was _wrong_ , on a cosmic level. This everything--this building, this protocol, this loudspeaker and the cameras, the crappy Bureau's website, the official documents, the decommissioning certification, the classes of slavery--this was all wrong, in a Lovecraftian way. Foggy felt like he'd just glimpsed some ancient, malicious horror, and was going insane.

He resolved to talk about it in therapy and instead just get through this. They'd go home and he'd do something really nice for Matt and look at kitten videos and they'd be okay. Everything would be fixed.

Then the door opened and the loudspeaker announced, "Guide for the owner of slave number--

And there it became the exact same robotic voice the self-checkouts used at Safeway, Foggy realized hysterically--

"Five-five-six-six-eight-two-three-nine-four-four-four-one has arrived."

Foggy looked through the door and saw a man with a bowl cut of curly brown hair and a bizarre nose, dressed in jeans and a Wonder Woman t-shirt and a blazer with a name tag that said ASHTON, grinning and saying, "You're next, Mister, uh, Franklin, can I call you Franklin?"

Foggy looked at him flatly. "My name is Foggy. His is Matt."

"Well come this way, Mister Foggy, and I'll take you to the appropriate rooms," the guy--Ashton--said cheerfully. "I'm Ash, like Ash Ketchum, gotta catch em all! Mostly pokemon, but slaves too, we try to catch _all_ behavioral issues before they become...serious. Come on, you're almost late!"

And with that Foggy stood up and so did Matt, and they left the first room, feeling rather like Dante descending into the levels of hell.

 

 

\--

 

Ashton walked backwards ahead of Foggy as they left the room, Matt holding onto Foggy, squeezing his arm, face blank.

The hallways felt like they should have been derelict, smeared with grime, with rats scurrying around. Instead they were bright and gleaming, clean and lit steadily, with a lot of windows and strong sunshine.

Foggy hated everyone in the world except Matt as they walked, for letting any of this exist.

Ashton prattled as he walked, "Now see, first it appears we have the modified medical--there's a couple of extras that have been made mandatory here, not sure why, maybe just because he's so _cute_ \--"

Ashton reached out one hand to ruffle Matt's hair, and without even thinking Foggy had maneuvered himself in the middle. "No."

"Oh, you don't like anyone else touching your property, okay, that's good actually!" he chirped, scribbling it down on his clipboard, which had little Pokemon and Batman stickers all over it.

Foggy stared at the Batman stickers. How could he be a fan of Batman, who was an anti-hero for condemning so many criminals to slavery, and yet work here?

"Oh, I love Batman, you're a fan too?" Ashton said, grinning. "I love him. He really inspired me to come here and help make everything more humane!"

Foggy...refused to respond to that. Instead he focused on Matt, who was completely silent, but didn't seem exactly out of it yet.

"Anyway, so then there's the obedience test...ooh, you're not gonna like that bit, but it's necessary, so I'll make sure that you can get it over nice and quick, and then you'll be out of here in a jiffy, I'm sure you're eager to keep having fun with this little guy!"

Foggy stared at him and said nothing.

"And in any case, here we are, the medic room...I'll be back once the exam is completed! Have fun!" Ashton said, bounding away and shutting the door behind him, which automatically locked.

Foggy looked around the room. There were four people in the room, two with lab coats, the other two just in nurse's scrubs. All of them were, inexplicably, wearing those paper mouth-nose masks and those blue gloves.

"The slave should strip and stand there."

Foggy gently nudged Matt, who proceeded to start stripping, handing his clothes to Foggy. Foggy worried for a second if the sight of Matt naked would arouse him, but he didn't have anything to worry about. This was the least sexy situation Foggy could think of.

"Alright, we've got a cubby over here," one the nurses said, pointing to a small wooden box. "You can also put your coat in there too, if you'd like. Depending on how compliant 4441 is, this might take a while."

Foggy took a deep breath, didn't hit her, and put the clothes in the box.

"Now, if you'd like to take a seat over there--" the nurse said, pointing to a chair on the other side of the room, almost ten feet from Matt.

"No, I'm good," Foggy said, and kept standing, folding his arms and coming so that he was standing as close to Matt as possible, who was naked. Foggy could see tiny goosebumps forming on his arms and legs. Matt's head was pointed directly ahead, and he held himself still.

"Alright, 4441, demonstrate walking, we need to see any impaired movements," one of the doctors, androgynous-sounding and dark-eyed, commanded. Matt turned and walked five steps, then turned and walked back.

"No impaired movement," the doctor said. "Next, come here and sit upright." The doctor was pointing to the flat wooden table.

"He means the table in the middle of the room, two feet directly in front of you," Foggy told Matt, who proceeded to walk there and sit up on the table, spine straight.

"Hmmm," the other doctor said, a blonde man. "So let's see...from previous records we've got defectiveness in the form of complete lack of light perception."

His voice had a strong Californian accent. He tutted disapprovingly, and Foggy hated him.

"Alrighty then," the other nurse muttered, with an air of irritation. She had bright red hair, tucked into a bun. Her scrubs had little pink squids on them. Foggy hated her too.

"Double-check pupils," the Californian doctor told the red-headed nurse. She checked a flashlight, and then sighed at the complete lack of response.

Foggy moved so that he was standing next to Matt, trying to do as much as he could. He kept his calm. He couldn't stop this now. He'd have to stop it from happening again some other time.

"No response," she reported.

"Alright, Shannon, that's to be expected. Now let's see...what else is on here? Height, weight, proprioception check, blood pressure and pulse, temperature, pharyngeal reflex, other reflexes, muscle tone, injuries, rectal sphincter responsiveness, eight vials of blood, urine sample, hair and skin samples, prescribing medication for the defectiveness if necessary, basic tooth check...oh, and let's save the best for last."

What the hell were they saving for _last_? Foggy wondered, but kept an iron grip on himself. If Matt had to endure this, he had to stay calm and help him get through it.

"Let's begin with basic injuries," the Californian doctor recommended. "Then the measurements, then the blood draw. Now, 4441, move onto your back..."

There was something horribly wrong about them as they directed Matt to move, spread his thighs, peered at his genitals, and then looked at every inch of skin. Shannon and the other nurse peering closely at every patch of skin, experimentally pressing into patches of tissue.

Matt never flinched or made a single noise. It was almost like he wasn't really there at all, the idea of which made Foggy panic.

"Huh, Dr Jordan," Shannon said to the androgynous doctor. "These two toes have been recently dislocated and then put back in. Expertly done, too."

_What?_ When had Matt dislocated his toes and how?

Foggy filed that away as something to ask about later, when they weren't knee-deep in enemy territory. They didn't even seem to be aware that they were looking at a human face as they peered at his eyes.

"Okay, I don't see any signs of injury, let's move onto measurements," the Californian doctor declared. Shannon and the other nurse nodded, and then the other nurse said to Matt, "4441, go stand on the scale."

Matt got up off the table and turned to walk, but, Foggy realized, the scale wasn't different enough from the other low rectangular metal things--probably stepstools--so he said, "It's four feet to your southeast."

Matt turned and walked to it mechanically. Foggy wondered why he wasn't talking, and then realized that if he didn't say 'master' or something else equally as spine-crawlingly wrong it would probably get put down as something that could have Matt mandated to go to the trainers', and Matt probably thought that Foggy would be mad at him for not just saying 'Foggy'.

He'd have to reassure Matt later that he'd happily endure any kind of social pain, rather than see Matt get hurt.

Matt stood on the scale, and the other nurse looked at Foggy. "Do you ever get tired of telling him where things are?"

"No." Foggy said.

"Really? You know that we don't have anything for his defects."

"I don't care," Foggy said, focusing on not arguing with her that Matt's blindness wasn't a _defect_ , it wasn't a missing hubcap.

"You're okay with having an inconvenient slave?" she asked again, arching an eyebrow. Foggy watched Shannon put a blood-pressure cuff on Matt, and then take his pulse.

She put it down as nine-five. He looked at the other nurse, and wouldn't have responded if he didn't know Matt was listening.

"Matt isn't inconvenient," Foggy said, because Matt wasn't. Sometimes he was really frustrating because he dehumanized himself so much, but he wasn't inconvenient. "He's absolutely brilliant. There's nothing wrong with him."

"Well, physically, you're mostly correct," Dr Jordan, the androgynous one said. Matt was walking back upon request to the table and sitting down. "So far there's nothing particularly wrong, besides the blindness. Now let's get those blood vials, Raya, and then Shannon, I want you to get the hair, skin and then the urine sample."

Raya walked over and started efficiently setting it up. Foggy watched Matt carefully, and was worried, right up until Matt slowly blinked at him.

Thank god. He wasn't out of it. He was handling it well.

"You're doing good," Foggy told Matt, and was relieved at how his lips twitched at the corner. Matt was also just playing his part.

Shannon snipped off a tiny piece of hair, remarking that it was 'such a shame, it's good hair' and putting it in a bag. Then she used some sort of pinching thing to take a small sample of skin on Matt's shoulder, and put a band-aid over it.

There was something deeply creepy about the way none of them spoke to Matt directly except to give orders, and none of them looked him in the eyes at all. Foggy didn't often try to look in Matt's eyes--it was hard, he couldn't hold a center gaze all that well--but he had kept trying reflexively for the first month he'd been around Matt.

Probably it had something to do with how he knew Matt was a person.

Shannon packaged the skin and then got a cup. Foggy blinked and opened his mouth to ask if they weren't about to do that in a bathroom, let Matt do it, but before he could say anything, Shannon grasped his cock and put the head in the cup.

Matt gave the tiniest twitch, and Raya tch'd from where she was getting the fifth vial.

"4441, piss," Shannon said, and Matt's toes curled in fear but he did, eyes watering faintly, his face turning red.

Raya looked at him disdainfully. "Is it embarrasssed? Jesus," she said, and made a disapproving noise.

Foggy wanted very badly to pick up one of the footstools and hit her in the head with it until her skull was paint on the floor. And then kill Shannon, and get Matt, and run out of there.

But he couldn't. So instead he did the only thing he thought he could do, the thing he should have been doing.

He navigated closer, picked up the hand of the arm that wasn't giving blood, and squeezed it gently.

Matt shivered all over, and Foggy wanted to elbow the doctors out of the way where they were standing behind Matt, but he couldn't risk it. He put both hands over Matt's.

Shannon snorted, closed the cup, wiped off the head of Matt's dick with a cold wipe, threw away her gloves, washed them, and got new ones.

Raya finished with the vials of blood, put them somewhere to the side, extracted the needle, and bandaged Matt's elbow.

"Now, 4441 looks in good shape," the Californian doctor said to Foggy. "So we don't have to do any stress-testing, I don't think. Let's do the proprioception check. 4441, close your eyes--oh, dear, that's useless."

Shannon snorted. "Just like it."

Foggy glared at her. "Matt is not useless."

Matt breathed in and out deeply, silently, face an unmoving titanium mask, like Han Solo frozen in carbonite.

"Well, anyway, put your arms out and then touch your nose with your fingertips.

Matt did it, Foggy letting go of his hand.

"Huh. That's better than normal. Anyway, now let's see--quick muscle tone check, then mouth first, then we can get the dirtiest parts done and move onto medication and the next one. Stand up, 4441, and flex your arms, then your legs. Alright, that looks good. Now your back. Hrm. Get over here," and he squeezed Matt's calves, then his thighs, and then his upper and then lower arms, and then his ass.

"Hey!" Foggy objected.

"This is a muscle too," the doctor said, winking at Foggy. "And a damn fine one. This is such a good specimen--pity about the defect. Now back on the table. I'll do the mouth checks."

Matt sat back on the table. The doctor had him open his mouth, and then he absently checked the teeth, noting that they were all straight and there. "I'd recommend a more specific dental check," he told Foggy. "Just to be sure."

Foggy thought about killing him, and didn't. He squeezed Matt's hand rhythmically. Matt squeezed back.

"Now, hrm. Temperature. Shannon, thermometer," and Shannon handed him one. The doctor put it under Matt's tongue, and had him close his mouth.

"Normal temperature. Good. No signs of infections. I hate it when they get sick, spreads throughout the herds," the doctor muttered to himself. "Now we've got to check all the reflexes. Raya, do the knees real quick while I get the pharyngeal reflex instrument," and Raya did the rubber-mallet-on-the-knees thing.

Matt's legs didn't twitch, which made her frown.

"Well," she said, but didn't write anything down. Foggy looked around for why, and saw a small army of cameras all in the ceilings, recording all of it, with little microphones attached too.

God. What kind of world had he been living in?

Foggy missed his blissful ignorance, and then he immediately hated himself for being such a selfish jackass, and squeezed Matt's hand tighter, stroking over it.

"Now," said the doctor, coming back with something made of clear plastic that looked uncannily like a very thin dildo in his hands. "I doubt it'll have reemerged. But let's see. 4441, open mouth."

Matt opened his mouth.

The doctor put the thing in, and pushed it down and down and down. Foggy said, almost panicked at the horrible sight, "Won't he choke?"

"Not likely," the doctor said. "See? No gagging. We'll do re-insertion twice more. And don't worry, we use only medically safe silicon here. No phthalates," and he flashed an eye smile.

Foggy wanted to run and hide and wrap Matt up in a million blankets and never, ever let anyone near him ever again. He was never going to stop having to apologize to him for this.

The doctor, true to his word, took it out, wiped it off, and shoved it back in three more times, each time rougher. Matt didn't choke, didn't react, didn't even seem to be there.

Foggy squeezed his hand, and miracle of miracles, Matt squeezed back.

"Alright," the doctor said, putting it to the side. "Just the two least favorite of our tests left, then prescriptions. Jordan, come and take over."

Dr Jordan nodded and came forward. "We'll do rectal sphincter response first, and then get our semen sample," and Foggy broke out in cold sweat.

Fuck. Fuck. He couldn't do anything but stand there and watch and wait for it to be over.

 

 

\--

 

Matt wasn't there.

Or, at least, he was trying hard to not be there. He was trying to drift off, trying to keep his mind away from the room and the medics. It was not safe to be around medics. It was not safe to be there, in that room, that building, and Matt tried to escape in his mind, but he couldn't.

He attempted to use some of his less-common tricks as he lay on his side and pulled a knee up like he was ordered--thinking about how it had felt to swim in oceans, reciting the proof of Gödel's incompleteness theorems, recalling how one of Taylor Swift's songs went, reorganizing the cupboards of Foggy's kitchen--but he couldn't make himself go away in his head.

Matt couldn't decide if it was cruel or kind, Foggy holding his hand. Cruel because it was anchoring him, keeping him sewn inside his body, or kind because it was soothing him, reminding him that Foggy hated this too, that Matt wasn't alone.

Either way, his owner was distressed and it was his job to soothe that distress, so Matt squeezed back hard as the doctor had the nurse fit a plastic bag over his genitals and then examine him.

There was the standard small electric shock to make sure the muscles could contract, and then the nurse--the one called Shannon--made a quiet noise of disgust as the bag filled with urine.

_It's involuntary, you shock so close to the genitals, and none of you calibrate them so this doesn't happen, it happens, it's not my fault,_ Matt wanted to scream. He clamped his mouth shut. Foggy wasn't disgusted, he didn't think.

Foggy's body sounded angry and upset and viscerally afraid. Matt realized he'd been squeezing hard enough to probably hurt him, and hastily relaxed his hand.

"Okay, now that that's over with," Dr Jordan said as Shannon touched him again to clean him off, "Let's get the semen sample and get out of here. Hey, Winston, you're already writing the scripts?"

Matt tried even harder to mentally escape as he heard Foggy protest, ask why it was necessary, was it actually mandated, and heard the other doctor--Winston--say that it had been ordered by some higher-up and if it was up to them they'd never do something so repulsive.

_It's the body that this is happening to, not you, you're not here, you don't exist, it's just the body, it's just the thing you drag around to use--_ Matt thought, trying to go away without permission, but the word _use_ just made him think of being used by Foggy and how sorry Foggy seemed to be to have done it and something about that made him want to cry.

Matt focused. He wasn't going to cry. He hadn't cried at the medics since his first intake, not since he'd first been taught how to go Elsewhere before them. He didn't even really remember other times he'd been at the medics--well, no, he remembered the appendicitis disaster, and Winter coldly fighting his way through the paperwork and red tape to get him into surgery as fast as they could, and then how afterwards Summer had fed him her best broth and Winter had let him have painkillers all the time, all four weeks. It had been more than worth the pain and sickness and fear. They had been so kind to him.

Foggy would have been kind, Matt thought suddenly. If he'd been Foggy's at the time when he'd gotten appendicitis, he'd have been kind. Matt still would have gotten painkillers, and been allowed to lie down and sleep anytime he felt like it. Foggy would have taken care of him.

Matt was unpleasantly jolted back into his body by the nurse--Raya--starting to stroke his dick with cold lubricant. He thought, a little hysterically, that if what they wanted was ejaculation then they should have warmed it up beforehand.

He started to shake a little, not on the outside, as his dick was touched. He didn't want to be touched. It felt wrong--worse than being touched by an owner.

Foggy had promised, over and over, that he wouldn't have to have sex again, and he meant it. Matt realized with a sharp clarity that that was probably why he was angry at the medics for this sample in particular--because they were forcing Matt to have an orgasm.

Apparently not a real one, because as soon as Matt's genitals involuntarily started to come--him tightening his muscles, using that trick--the hand was gone, ruining any pleasure from the orgasm. Good. Matt wasn't supposed to have any orgasms now.

Matt heard the nurse tell Foggy that they weren't about to give any slaves the wrong idea or break any training regimen by not ruining it. Foggy's heartbeat was like thunderclaps. Matt imagined what he would say if they were anywhere else.

_Matt is not useless. Matt isn't inconvenient. He's absolutely brilliant. There's nothing wrong with him._

Matt smiled a little. His fears hadn't come true. Foggy genuinely wasn't lying when he said he didn't care about having to compensate for Matt's defectiveness. Foggy didn't mind. Matt wouldn't be thrown away for something that was only partially his fault.

(He hadn't seen the barrels of chemicals, he'd just seen the man, the old man, he'd looked like someone's grandpa or something, and he hadn't even consciously decided to go and save him, he just _did it_ , and he was a child. It wasn't really his fault that he was blind.)

Matt resolved to be especially good for Foggy in the next few weeks. He'd have to do something wonderful for him for all this support, this fellow hating of the medics. Maybe he could go buy him a Christmas present--get permission to wrap the scarf around his collar or just wear a face-mask hoodie so nobody noticed it and he would be guaranteed to not have to call Foggy to prove he was allowed somewhere.

(Mr Fogwell had never asked him, but three times, a cop on the street had asked Matt for proof of him being allowed to walk outside alone. Thankfully all three times it was easily solved by him meekly calling Foggy and the cops going on to try to harass some poor other slave, but still. Matt wouldn't spoil a Christmas present surprise.)

He realized that now Foggy was holding his clothes and taking pieces of paper that sounded like prescriptions, and Foggy was saying gently, "Matt, now we have to go."

Matt moved to standing and took Foggy's proffered arm.

"Apparently you can't redress for the 'obedience test'," Foggy muttered as they walked out of there. _Out of there_ , away from the medics, hallelujah.

Matt nodded. He'd expected that. And now nobody was forcing him to be disgusting, he didn't much care. Anyone who saw his naked body was lucky. It was beautiful, he'd been told that over and over again.

He walked with Foggy to the next part, where it was his job to help his owner get through this.

He squeezed Foggy's arm minutely as they walked. Matt didn't bother to pay attention to the guide, even though he could tell Foggy was.

 

 

\--

 

The guy was getting on his very last nerves.

Foggy tried hard to keep his cool. But he'd just had to hold the hand of the person he knew he'd be loving for the rest of his life while they were raped, and he hadn't even been able to hold him or touch his hair. It was not easy.

Thankfully, they were out of the worst of it, but the twerpy fucking piece of dogshit that was now chirping about how _the people giving the tests--like me, that's my department--are such humanitarians, don't worry about a thing at all_ was not exactly a good sign.

Ash nattered on about how really it wouldn't take all that long since  
'4441' had been nice and compliant during the exam. These monsters here didn't even use Matt's full _number_ when they were talking about him, much less his _name_.

Foggy gripped Matt tighter as they walked and walked down a labyrinth of dizzyingly identical corridors, the rooms marked only out by number, the windows freshly cleaned.

There was the sound of a child sobbing as they walked past one door, and Foggy turned his head to look--

And Ash sniffed disdainfully. "The fresher stock are always a bit loud at the beginning," he told Foggy. "We're working on a program using more automated Skinner boxes to ensure that they comply in full faster and more thoroughly. There's been a surge of slaves that are only obedient to one owner lately, so we're thinking about instituting a project that would have more mass-testing with a revolving door of administers. I'm pushing for it, but it might take a few years to go through."

Foggy wondered what it was about him that made people think he agreed with their insanely disturbing opinions. Was it his face? Did he smell like he was evil? What was wrong with him that every fetid asshole, every rancid pile of slop inside a skin-suit of a human being thought he'd agree with their bullshit?

Ash flipped through more papers on his clipboard as they stopped walking in front of a room. "We're here now," he said brightly. "Okay, you step inside," he said to Foggy, and then pointed into the middle of the room and adopted a high-pitched, weirdly intonated tone as he ordered Matt, "And _you_ step there, widdle guy!"

Foggy just barely managed to not laugh at the sheer horrible weirdness of the situation. Matt stepped uncertainly inside the room.

"Okay, I'll be back in a second," Ash said cheerfully, and locked the door behind them.

"God," Foggy said, walking over to Matt. "The--guy--" he couldn't say cockroach, not with the surveillance, "--pointed at the center of the room," he added, and Matt walked over, head held high, and stood, perfectly calm.

Him being naked made Foggy feel exposed. He pushed past it and glanced at the cameras, and thought about what he could pass off as normal slave-owner behavior, and then he walked over and gently cradled Matt's head to his chest, stroking his hair.

Matt sighed and his knees bent, folding his legs under him. He angled his face, and blinked slowly at Foggy.

Oh, thank christ. He was okay--well, as okay as he could be expected to be. Matt wasn't completely helpless. He would be okay.

"Awww, that's so _cute_ ," Ash cooed as he came in, holding something that looked like an exacto knife and his clipboard. "What a total cutie-pie he is," he added, grinning at Matt.

Matt's eyebrow twitched. Foggy turned to look at Ash, hands still in Matt's hair. His soft, silky hair.

"Anyway," Ash said brightly. "Here's a list of commands," and Foggy reluctantly let go of Matt and took it, skimming.

Something caught his eye. "Uh, that says 'name a blue object in the room'," Foggy said with a frown. "He's blind."

"Oh? Well, oh my gosh, I didn't notice. Then let's just rule that one was not applicable due to defectiveness--see, it's right there, no light perception, I totally should have seen it, wow," and Ash took back the paper and made a little note next to it.

"Do you ever find that it's annoying, having such a--well, I don't want to be rude, but I suppose _feeble_ works--having such a feeble, defective slave? I'm curious."

Foggy wanted to tell him to go fuck a duck. Instead he said, his voice sounding completely emotionless despite the storm threatening to bleed out his ears, "There is nothing defective or 'feeble' or wrong with Matt in any way."

"Really? I guess it must have lowered the _price_ , at least," and Ash sounded skeptical.

Foggy stared at him. "Matt was last sold for--it was seven and half million, wasn't it?" he asked Matt, who nodded, the barest hint of a smile on his lips, unnoticeable as spider silk.

"Wow? Really! That's..as much as I'll make in a hundred and eighty-seven years and six months!" he sounded jealous. Foggy smirked internally, trying to keep his face still. _Yeah, asshole, Matt is worth more than you--if you could put a dollar value on a person, which you can't,_ he hastily backtracked, even in his own head.

"See, now I wish they let the ones like me read through all the ownership records, and not just the basic briefs, because then I'd ask if maybe I could give this adorable little sweetie a little petting myself," and somehow the baby-talking was the worst part.

Foggy...couldn't. So he held out his hand for the paper, and Ash chuckled and handed it to him. "Maybe later, then?"

"No," Foggy said absently, looking it over. He couldn't make himself read it more than one line at a time then. "Let's just do this."

"Al-righty then! Go ahead and start and I'll make a note of any problem areas."

Foggy twitched and started.

\--

Matt made sure to blink slowly each time he did what Foggy said. He was quick and smooth, and none of the commands were difficult. When Foggy got to "Say something", Matt cleared his throat and quoted softly, "Der klügste Krieger ist der, der niemals kämpfen muß."

Foggy relaxed a bit that at, even though Matt knew he didn't speak any German.

"What's that mean?" the guide--loathsome little cockroach that he was--piped up.

Foggy casually lied, "Oh, it's just a 'thank you for being nice, master'. Is this room audio recorded?"

"No, we just do visual for the obedience testing," the guide said. "And oh, that's so cute, he's just such a small little snuggle bunny inside, I can see that now."

Matt imagined himself slitting the guide's throat for Foggy. How the skin would sound as it parted, the gush of the artery, the blissful silence as his voice was gone from the world.

Foggy said nothing, but Matt could guess that he wasn't pleased. Thank goodness. Matt had had to pretend to be a pseudo-child for three months once, and he didn't want to repeat that particular failure.

"Anyway, next is--okay, arch your back," and then it was just the rhythm of command and obey again. Matt fell into it, slowly blinking each time, Foggy calming down.

Then they hit a nasty snag as Foggy, instead of going on, said, "Wait, what?"

The guide nodded, his hair--cheap Old Spice shampoo and coconut oil--swishing against his ears. "You've gotten to the new section. Here, you need this," and handed Foggy--

Was that a knife?

Foggy spluttered. "You can't expect me--what the hell?"

"I'm afraid we do," the guide said, sounding genuinely regretful. "It's barbaric, but what can you do? Just get it over with."

Foggy swallowed, and Matt, sitting up on his knees, slow blinked again. Then Foggy said, sounding mildly afraid but much more like he did in mock-trial, angry and determined and utterly in control of himself, "The next thing is 'cut yourself with this," and he held out a hand with an object.

Matt reached out and delicately took it, brushing Foggy's fingers as he did.

It was, in fact, a small knife.

 

 

\--

 

Foggy watched with building, helpless horror, as Matt held the knife to the back of his forearm and very quickly sliced himself in the shape of a heart.

"Wow! Well-done, you little champ!" Ash cooed, and then straighted up. "Sorry, I know he's _your_ property, and that was a bit unprofessional, but that was just too cute for words. I can't even see why the complaint was filed!"

Foggy stared at him. "What complaint?"

"Oh, well, the police report would have warranted the most basic medical exam and a brief obedience test--unfortunate savage leftover ritual included--but a guy said that a more thorough medical was needed, someone named Jay Bee Bee Winter?"

Matt twitched, his face going blanker and flatter, his back tightening with tension. Shit.

Foggy focused. He needed to get Matt out of here. "Are we done, or--"

"Well, there's three more commands left," Ash said.

"Right. Fuck. Okay," Foggy said, looked at them, and took a deep breath.

"Apologize to your owner," and Matt moved forward and kissed each shoe, lips lascivious.

"Thank your owner," and Matt leaned up and kissed each hand, not blinking slowly.

God-damn shit. But he had to do the last one, and Foggy swallowed. "Mouth at your owner through their pants," and Matt leaned forward and did it, and then Ash said, "That's all, folks!"

Foggy hastily added, "Stop!" and Matt stopped.

Foggy breathed in and out, trying to gather his thoughts and deflate his erection.

There was a scream, loud and piercing and deadening, and then a very loud _thud_. That did the job.

Ash said, smile still there, "Now let me guide you back to the lobby."

"Matt can get dressed first," Foggy rebutted. He hoped it would help, and either way, he wasn't going to ever voluntarily participate in this circus.

Ash tilted his head and then shrugged. "I suppose. Now, we'll stop by medical again for the cut--"

The crimson was oozing across Matt's skin. Foggy looked at it and winced. "No, we can just use the first-aid kit I've got in the car."

Ash frowned. "If you're sure."

Foggy was absolutely, beyond any semblance of doubt, sure. "Yes. I'm sure."

Matt got redressed in his t-shirt and jeans, underwear and socks, face still the statue-like mask he had, back tight and toes curling as he pulled on his shoes. Foggy felt an enroaching fear that the revelation that the person responsible for this was someone Matt (inexplicably) loved was too much, and now Matt was completely out of it.

Shit. He hoped he was wrong.

Foggy guided Matt as they got back to the lobby, Ash checked them out with the receptionist, giggling with her about how _super cute_ Matt was, and they finally, finally left.

\--

"He okay?" Dad said, frowning at them as they got back to the car. "Is that blood?"

"Yes, and let's just--let's go home, Dad, drop us at our place," Foggy said, focusing on Matt and fishing out the first-aid kit.

"Shouldn't he go back in to get that--"

"NO!" Foggy shouted, and then realized what he had done. "No, dad, look--I'll explain later--we need to get home _right now_."

"Alright, alright," Dad grumbled. "We'll go once you two get buckled."

Foggy fumed but bandaged up Matt, who was okay enough to buckle his own seatbelt, and then they left, Dad putting on the _fucking_ Beatles.

They sat in complete, worried silence. Foggy held Matt's hand, not wanting to provoke some argument by stroking his hair in front of Dad, and told him over and over again that it was okay.

Matt's hand remained limp in his grip.

\--

At home, once they got out of the car and into the apartment, Foggy turned to Matt.

"Cuddle party?"

Matt shivered. "I--" he said, and then swallowed hard.

Foggy made as soft an encouraging noise as he knew. "It's fine, whatever you want, you deserve anything you want after that."

Matt paused. "Can I--go running, Foggy?"

"What? Now?"

Matt flinched. "Sorry--"

"No, no," Foggy backtracked. It was just that Matt always seemed to like cuddling before, but he guessed it was actually probably good that he was saying _no_ to touch. "It's fine, it's totally fine, just--be careful, okay?"

Matt nodded. "Of course, Foggy," he murmured. "Nothing will damage your property", and he went to go get a hoodie--a large black one Foggy had gotten for him back when he was still mostly ignoring Matt and hoping he'd go away--and his oh-shit-kit, and then Matt slipped out.

Foggy watched him go uneasily. If Matt wanted space, he'd give him space. But he still didn't know how Matt would be, or how to process any of the things that had happened.

He went to the kitchen, grabbed a sandwich, and put it down in his calendar to talk about that shit in therapy. He definitely couldn't actually talk about it with Dad; either Dad would get way too upset or he wouldn't get upset enough, and both ways would be awful. Then Foggy laid down, went on that 'tumbler' site Candace was always on, and onto her own blog's 'cute things' tag--she'd sent him a link years ago. He needed some cuteness.

There Foggy scrolled through pictures of puppies and kittens and armadillos and waited for Matt to come back, hoping like hell that he would be okay when he did.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is also from Andrea Dworkin's "I Want A 24-Hour Truce During Which There Is No Rape".
> 
> Matt's quote in German is a translated quote from Sun Tzu's 'The Art of War'. In English, it means "The smartest warrior is the one who never has to fight."
> 
> I picture Ash as Jesse Eisenberg.


	88. wouldn’t it be much worse if life were fair, and all the terrible things that happen to us come because we actually deserve them?

Matt didn't even enjoy the first half of the run.

He ran, and ran, across the rooftops, in the alleys, and he kept going over obstacles and under clothes-lines, going and going and going, until he found an empty, abandoned warehouse.

Making sure it was _actually_ abandoned--it was--he went inside, ducking around broken glass as best he could, found a wall, sat down, pulled his knees up to his chest, and screamed.

He screamed and screamed, and in that wordless scream was everything he had ever wanted to say, all the words he choked down and swallowed, everything he didn't even let himself think.

And then, eventually, it ended, and Matt took a few deep, sobbing breaths, and let himself do the unthinkable for a little while.

He thought about running away.

He thought about how badly he wanted to just _run_ , to get anywhere else, to take his chances.

But at the same time, he knew it would be beyond stupid. It would be the most humiliating, frustrating exercise in futility, a farce more facetious than he could bear.

The closest country without any slavery was Chile; even if he could get there--or to Thailand or Papa New Guinea or somewhere else--where would he go? What would he do? How would he get there?

And besides, they would expedite him back, for a fee. Any slave worth half a million or more was shipped back as a criminal. He would have to hide from everyone--American bounty hunters, government-hired and non, the government agents of whatever country he hid out, every person on the street. He would have no friends, no family.

At least here he had Bee. At least here he might be able to find another sort of friendship with another slave. At least here he had Foggy, who was the kindest, most lenient, protective owner he'd ever heard of.

Matt realized he was hyperventilating, shaking apart, close to vomiting, and tried to calm himself down. He thought about the memories of good sensations: the taste of croissants, the feeling when he'd done something right, the sound of rainwater, warm ocean water against his skin--

And then the ocean made him think about Summer leading him in, grinning, telling him that now he'd re-learned how to swim, he'd love this, taste the _salt_ Matt it's glorious--

And that made him think about Winter, which made him want to die. Why had he punished Matt, and so severely? What had Matt _done_? He'd been loyal to Foggy and good for him--of course he had. Foggy was his _owner_. Was he supposed to be an ungrateful little bargain-bin twit and side with a free person who _wasn't_ his owner? What did Winter expect out of him? Why had he punished him?

Matt closed his eyes and leaned his head against his own thigh. He wanted to die--well, no, not really. He wanted to get _out_ of all of this, take off his collar and be done with it all. He wanted a small apartment in the city and to be alone and not have to _think_ so much about how to make his owner happy, constantly calculate and readjust and maintain his training.

( _You need goals, Matt. Things to work for, to hope for._

_I want to be free._

_**Realistic** goals, Matt._ )

Matt shivered and breathed in and out. He didn't want to be dead. He just wanted to escape.

But it would be fruitless. It would be futile. If he ran away and got taken back--he didn't think he'd live through it. His body might survive, but whatever was inside his skull would no longer be him, strong and unbroken.

And if he tried to be some sort of facsimile of the free person he would have been had he never been enslaved--that would be worse. He wouldn't be able to stand it, to go from that back to a slave when Foggy inevitably got tired of backtalk and chafing at the collar and the irritation of Matt's personality.

He hadn't had more than a few friends back when he'd been a person, anyway. Dad had loved him, and liked him, but Dad was his _dad_ , of course he did. A few of the nuns had liked him a little bit, but most of them had pitied him. And he'd had a couple of friends at the orphanage, but then Stick came and irrevocably destroyed his personhood.

Matt wasn't worth all that much when he was a free person. He was so grateful when Summer explained that she'd make him worth _millions_.

He realized he was calmer, but at the same time, he felt a low, seething fire in his stomach at today. How fucking _dare_ Winter--who wasn't his owner anymore, who had _sold_ him, who had no right--treat him like that, condemn him to unnecessary repulsiveness.

Foggy would never have done that. Foggy, his _actual_ owner, was kind, and nice, and consistently never hit him. The only time he'd actually punished him, he'd done it because Matt begged him to, and then he let Matt do it to himself. Foggy had hated the government drones and their broken stingers. Foggy had hated the way the guide talked about Matt. Foggy gave him clothes and let him voice his opinions and said Matt was excellent. Foggy _understood_ Matt's value.

Furious, Matt got up to go work off some of the burn and then go back to Foggy, his _actual_ owner, and the best he'd ever had. If Winter couldn't understand how much Matt was worth anymore, he could go to hell.

\--

Foggy had ended up looking at the Slave Bureau articles on Wikipedia, and then followed links to a Cracked.com article about _Six Reasons Why the Bureau of Slavery Is A National Joke_ , and was now a heady combination of righteously angry and full of schadenfreude.

He was shaken out of it by a tapping on the window.

Foggy looked up and saw Matt casually hanging off the side of the roof by one hand, the other tapping at the window.

His mouth fell open, but he got up and unlocked the window, pulling it up. Matt maneuvered one foot inside of it, onto the windowsill, and then ducked inside, smiling.

"Holy shit!" Foggy blurted out, closing the window. "Matt--how did you--"

"I went for a run," Matt said, sounding strangely happy, ducking his head and tilting it to listen harder.

"I--did you come from the roof? Were you--what--where were you running?"

"On the roofs," Matt said, standing on one foot, stretching out the other behind him. "And some alleys."

Foggy gaped at him. "Like--those parkour guys in action movies?"

Matt's whole face radiated joy. "Probably, Foggy," he said, stretching the other leg.

Foggy's mouth opened and closed like a fish. "Wow," he said breathlessly. "I--you're okay? You don't get hurt doing that?"

Matt nodded. "It hasn't snowed or iced over yet," he explained, "So I don't slip."

Foggy looked at Matt--really _looked_ at him--and while now he was a bit more conscious of the fact that Matt had frankly insanely good senses after living with him and double-checking with Matt about how well he could smell and taste, he hadn't been quite so aware of how physically awesome Matt was.

Foggy pictured Matt running across rooftops like those ninja guys in movies, and felt himself smile too. It was a beautiful mental image, especially in contrast to Matt naked and kneeling and shaking, cutting his arm with a knife.

"Hey, you're okay?" Foggy asked, looking him over. Matt looked like he did when he got back from what he did at the gym--and now Foggy was curious about that too--sweaty and tired, but not hurt.

Matt nodded. "Thank you, Foggy," he said, kissed one of Foggy's hands, and went to go shower.

"Hey," Foggy said before Matt left the room. "Did you want to, uh, cuddle afterwards?"

Matt beamed at him. "Yes," he said, and went to go wash off. Naked. Happy. In the shower.

Foggy realized how much he was turning red at the mental image of Matt both naked _and_ happy, rather than afraid or blank, and knew that he was absolutely _doomed_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a quote from Babylon 5. Full quote: "I used to think it was awful that life was so unfair. Then I thought, “wouldn’t it be much worse if life were fair, and all the terrible things that happen to us come because we actually deserve them?” So now I take great comfort in the general hostility and unfairness of the universe."


	89. I name the wicked beautiful, because that is what I am

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavy trigger warning for suicidal ideation/desire in this chapter. It's about a past incident and there was no successful suicide, but still.

In the shower, Matt closed his eyes and breathed in and out deeply.

Foggy was his owner now, and he didn't need to care about Winter or his opinion of him. Foggy had been strong enough to refuse the offers. Foggy was always sincere when he said that he wouldn't sell Matt, and while the future was like water--always running out of your palms--Matt felt about as confident as he did about anything that Foggy would keep him.

(Well. So long as he kept up to standards. If you fell behind on your duties, then there was never any real telling what would happen. And honestly, if Matt fucked up so badly with an owner _this_ permissive, this generous, he'd deserve to be whipped and locked in a cage for a week, as much as Foggy probably wouldn't do it. Foggy deserved the absolute best. Foggy deserved the world.)

Matt breathed in and out, and thought that it was probably for the best that that little child who had run out in the street to save a stranger was dead, that he was no more. Matt wasn't a person, and that was for the best. That way, nothing of anything had happened to Matthew Michael Murdock, because he was gone, safe and sheltered from the harsh real world.

Matt imagined closing his eyes and being handed the knife to cut out his personhood, and he did it gladly, making sure to slice it off and throw it out. He let go of the dream of being free. He was Foggy's doll, his slave, and that would be enough.

That would be plenty. Thing weren't so bad or confusing anymore.

Then he finished scrubbing off, and moved out, toweling dry and going to go cuddle his owner like Foggy wanted.

\--

Foggy reread the article and then switched over to watching a baby elephant play soccer, and then Matt came out with a towel wrapped around his waist.

Foggy made the mistake of looking up, and _jesus christ_ was Matt built. He had a full eight-pack, for god's sake. Foggy had the feeling he was looking at an underwear model. His mouth watered.

Matt tilted his head and Foggy realized that Matt could probably hear his body's reaction or, worse, smell his now-interested dick, and cursed himself. He cleared his throat. "We don't have to if you don't want to."

Matt blinked rapidly the way he did when he was surprised. "I want to, Foggy," he said quietly, and started to pull on a pair of pajama pants and a soft shirt.

Foggy swallowed and looked at the slowly opening cut on Matt's arm. It shrank his erection very quickly. "You should re-bandage that," he said.

Matt made a noise of agreement and went to go bandage it, but it was at a weird angle. "I can," Foggy said, and Matt smiled and walked over, offering out his arm, fingers limp.

Foggy bandaged him back up, carefully, and watched Matt's face. He never twitched.

"You don't seem to mind pain," Foggy said.

Matt nodded. "Pain is just an opportunity to get better," Matt said. "All pain is a lesson, and all lessons can make you better."

Foggy stared at him. _That_ sounded like some sort of creepy mantra, like Matt had been saying that one bad night he'd woken up to find Matt hurting himself and completely out of it.

"And..what would you learn..from that?" Foggy asked, unable to stop himself. It was like seeing a coyote hit by a car sucking in breaths. It was horrible, but he couldn't not be curious.

Matt said, teasingly, "That the Bureau is even more harebrained and asinine than I thought."

Foggy, despite himself, snickered and let the conversation change direction. It was a bit cowardly, but the more he learned about Matt's fucked-up _Clockwork Orange_ type past, the angrier he got, and the angrier he got, the more upset and confused Matt seemed. Right there and then, all he wanted to do was cuddle Matt and make them both feel better.

Matt paused, and Foggy said, "C'mere, if you want to," and Matt snuggled down into Foggy's arms, cuddling him and moving so that they were facing each other. Their legs tangled, and Matt breathed into his neck, slowly and deeply and deliberately.

Foggy's erection came back for a second, and then Foggy remembered the kid sniffling in the waiting room, and it left instantly.

"I was scared for a minute there that you'd want to off yourself," Foggy said without thinking.

"No, Foggy," Matt answered, curling up more. "I don't want to die. I thought I did, a long time ago, after being in the market. Even when I'd just been bought, I still--I hadn't learned to not be ungrateful then," he said, with the kind of air Dad had when he talked about being foolish as a kid.

"And when we got to the home--me and Summer, Sir--our owner--had disappeared off somewhere, she sat me down and explained to me that I probably didn't want to _die_ , I just wanted a better life, and I could still have that. I just had to lower my expectations.

"And I insisted--I hadn't learned to not backchat my superiors then, either--that I really did want to die, to be dead, and she nodded and pulled out a gun, loaded it, flicked the safety off, and put it in my hands."

Foggy couldn't hold a little gasp in at that. What the fucking shit?

"And then I put it in my mouth--the barrel--and she stood there calmly and told me to do it, if I really wanted to, if I was serious, she explained that it was a big one, with scatter-shot armor-piercing rounds, I'd be dead in ten seconds, it would be painless. She egged me on and dared me to do it, to kill myself, do it you little coward, show me what you can do, if that was what I really wanted I should just take it before it was too late--"

Foggy clutched Matt tighter, hoping to god he wouldn't have to stop him, wouldn't have to rush him to the ER or, or, _bury_ Matt some day--

"And I couldn't. I didn't. I took it out and--well, I was going to try to aim it at her, but she laughed and told me I got a free shot--but I if I even got a hit on her, her owner would kill me over the course of years and years, and if I hit her where she'd die he'd whip my back off and slice out my vocal cords and chop off my thumbs and sell me as a newly minted puppy-pet—“

Foggy stared at Matt, mouth agape, what the hell was _wrong_ with her?

And the worst part was, Matt was quietly laughing, almost giggling at the memory.

“And he would've, there was one time he did something to some traffickers that tried to steal her and got enslaved—but that's a very different story,” Matt said brightly, rubbing his cheek onto Foggy's collarbone.

"She was quite serious, and I didn't know how to aim a gun, so I put it down, and we both laughed. I didn't want to die then, not even at my nadir, and I don't want to die now, either, Foggy, I'm okay," and Matt pressed his face into Foggy's neck again, hiding it. "I'm alright. You don't have to worry about me."

_Oh, buddy, I'll never not have to worry about you,_ Foggy thought, and then mentally slapped himself. He had to stop with this whole 'condescending to Matt' kick he was on. It was bullshit.

But still--"She seriously gave you a gun and dared you to kill yourself?"

"It was the only kind thing to do," Matt explained, in the same tone as he explained why using buttermilk was a good choice for cupcakes or how lemon curd was actually made.

"Anything less wouldn't have forced me to realize it, and this way, I had to _choose_ to live. It made my will to keep being alive re-awaken. It was the last choice I made before I understood that I wasn't a person anymore," Matt said, snuggling into Foggy. "After that, she helped correct my faulty assumptions about what I was, and started calibration."

That made it sound like...well, it sounded like pure bullshit to Foggy, an excuse to be cruel to a kid, but at the same time, Foggy had to acknowledge that Matt knew himself best, and if he thought that it made him less suicidal then that could only be a good thing.

"I'm glad you're alive," he said, and hugged onto Matt, anxiously patting at him.

"I am, too, Foggy," Matt said, and they lay there, breathing in and out.

"Hey, so," Foggy piped up, "I just remembered--today has already been fired, so let's just spend the rest of it doing things that make you happy. Anything you want me to do for you?"

\--

The only thing Matt could think of right there and then was a kiss.

He wasn't sure why his entire body had focused in on the idea, why his mind had decided that was his daily goal, to earn a kiss, but that was what he wanted. He wanted it more than anything else, more than breathing. He wanted Foggy to want just him, to show him in an even more concrete way. Anywhere Foggy wanted to kiss him, he wanted it. Badly.

But first, he had to check. He bit his lip and made sure his voice was tentative rather than flat the way it was when he was actually scared, and asked Foggy quietly, "Could I ask for something, even if you don't want to give it, Foggy?"

Foggy nodded. "Yeah, Matt. Actually, that would be great. That's totally fine. I won't be mad, no matter what it is."

Matt filed that away as something to decode later--Foggy believed it, but that couldn't be straightforwardly what he meant, it was too absurd. Maybe it was rhetorical hyperbole? Or Foggy just trusted him to not ask for anything unreasonable?

He cleared his throat. "A kiss, Foggy, please?" he asked, heart pounding in his chest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also comes from Jeanann Verlee's "Poem to Translate the Poems".


	90. it is in your self-interest to find a way to be very tender

Foggy stared at Matt, not quite sure he'd heard him correctly.

"Hey, remember who I am?"

Matt nodded. He didn't _look_ out of it, just--anticipatory? "Foggy," he said, and waited.

"And remember: no sex."

Matt nodded again against his chest.

So he meant--a platonic kiss? But somehow Foggy didn't think Matt would be just satisfied with a peck on the cheek. Doing that felt like it would be--mean, or teasing, or somehow letting him down.

Foggy thought about it, feeling Matt start to tense up, and then he wriggled and angled their faces together, them lying side by side, and gently rubbed his nose against Matt's in a nose-kiss.

Matt's nose scrunched up and he made a very quiet little _giggle_.

Foggy grinned and did it again, making Matt laugh again. "What-- _is_ that?" Matt asked, smiling and blushing.

"It's a kiss from I think Inuit people? Some group of people from like, Canada, or Alaska," Foggy said, nose-kissing Matt again. "It's called a nose-kiss," he informed Matt.

Matt squirmed. "It--" he said, and then started to laugh again as Foggy kept going. "It--it _tickles_ ," Matt said, and started to squirm more.

"Yeah?" Foggy said, smiling at how ridiculous and adorable and perfect Matt was. He loved him more than he loved anyone else.

"I haven't--" Matt gasped out, and said, breath caressing Foggy's mouth and smelling like nothing, "I haven't been tickled since I was a person," and Foggy couldn't just ignore that, so he moved and smooched Matt's jaw.

"To me, you are definitely still a person," Foggy said. "An awesome person. The best person. And we can have all the tickling you want later."

Matt looked confused, not happy, so Foggy switched to just smooching. He kissed Matt's elbow where the asshole nurse had taken blood, and then over the bandage where Matt had been made to cut himself, and then Matt's wrists, over his beautiful veins.

Matt went more and more relaxed, eyes half-lidded and gazing absently forward. His lips opened and he breathed through his mouth, his skin turning a faint pink.

"You good?" Foggy asked, moving back up carefully.

Matt smiled and teased, gently, "I try to be."

Foggy snorted and leaned in. "You, Matt, are the absolute _best_ ," he declared, and moved in to kiss Matt's mouth, and thought better of it.

"Anywhere else you want a patented Foggy Nelson kiss?" he asked Matt, who shivered.

"Anywhere you want, so long as nobody's clothes have to come off for it," Foggy prompted gently. Sometimes Matt got too freaked out at making decisions.

Matt licked his lips and moved so his arm was in front of his face--

And he put two fingers on the back of his neck.

Foggy tilted his head. "That's where you want me to to kiss you?"

Matt nodded, looking wary but so, so hungry. Starving. Famished.

Foggy couldn't deny him, refused to make him suffer, so he moved and adjusted so that Matt was lying, back to him.

Foggy gently laced a hand with Matt's right hand, and bent down his neck and gently kissed the very back of his neck, right above where the collar-clasp went for the collar lined with red silk.

Matt _moaned_ out loud at that, very softly. Foggy squeezed his hand.

"Good moan or bad moan? Either way is fine," Foggy said against his neck.

" _Good_ , Foggy," Matt said, completely relaxed, loosey-goosey, a puddle of warm, melted chocolate. All the tension was gone from him.

"You want more?" Foggy asked. He wanted to kiss Matt so _badly_ , to do anything at all to make up for today, for every day of Matt's life. To do anything to make it better.

"My--my collar, Foggy?" Matt asked, almost a whisper, pleadingly.

Foggy didn't want to. But he knew that he had to sometimes cross over into Matt's world to get a point across.

Still, he would be cautious. "What would that mean to you? If I did that?"

Matt shifted against him, and his voice was low and thick with desire. If Foggy didn't know any better, he'd have thought Matt was talking to his lover, not his owner. "That you mean to keep me, forever," Matt said. "That you won't ever let me go. That I'm yours, and you won't let anyone else use me for so much as a dish. That I'm too valuable to hurt."

Leave it to Matt to phrase it in the creepiest way possible. But--Foggy couldn't _not_ reassure Matt now, not when Foggy had just held his hand not a scant few hours earlier while he was raped.

"I won't sell you, ever," Foggy said quietly. "And nobody gets to hurt you. Not me, not anyone. Never again."

Matt shivered and Foggy took the hint and kissed the clasp of the collar.

Matt moaned again, louder, body slumping down like he'd just come. But, of course, he hadn't.

Foggy maneuvered them carefully so they were face-to-face again, but Matt moved down and hid his in Foggy's neck.

"I wish we could stay like this forever," Foggy said to Matt, stroking his hair. "Just like this. Safe and warm and okay."

Matt sighed gently. "Me too, Foggy."

They lay like that for a long time, Foggy keeping his hand gently on Matt's head, listening to him breathe, the sounds of the refrigerator and the cranky, clunky old heating system.

He ignored his erection. It wasn't worthy of a response. Getting turned on by Matt felt disrespectful now.

\--

It was very surreal, lying there, feeling safe.

Even despite the dangerous-as-a-machine-gun erection digging into Matt's pelvis, this felt safe. Foggy was kind and sweet and gentle and generous; Foggy didn't hurt him or get angry at him or punish him. Foggy liked it that Matt had woken him up before Foggy could do more than grind on him in the night.

Foggy was warm blankets and a pat on the head for being good and the sound of the hot-tub's jets. Foggy was food enough to fill his stomach for days, the rhythmic silence of dozens of restful, healthy heartbeats. Foggy was like when he was allowed in the Nest downstairs instead of having to interact with guests. Foggy was like being tied down so he _couldn't_ disobey. Foggy was promises kept and privileges earned and rewards for being alive.

Foggy was, impossibly, pure and utter safety.

Not from everything, Matt knew intellectually. Not from if he decided to change, because as much as Foggy was like the ground, solid and reassuring to be near, even the ground could shake and split and betray you.

He also wasn't safety from physical, outside threats. But he let Matt train, and Matt didn't slack off. He was more than enough in shape.

To keep himself from falling asleep--it was only a little into the afternoon, for goodness' sake, he couldn't afford to sleep then, it was ridiculous--Matt thought about how he'd protect Foggy if anything happened. He didn't feel a ounce of fear, just spun his brain's gears and cogs idly; if anything happened, they'd be okay. They'd survive. Foggy and Matt were a _team_ , Matt a well-oiled machine, Foggy an archetype of the kindest owner.

Matt felt unbelievably lucky. He wanted to stay there forever, breathing in the smells of Foggy's blood from his neck's arteries, the iron and the hemoglobin and the glucose, listening to the sounds of his excellently healthy body, each second another moment he was allowed to have this. He wanted to always be safe and be allowed to touch Foggy in Foggy's bed and be good enough for kisses, sweet and safe, nothing to suggest Foggy would decide his rules or Matt had outlived their usefulness.

He hated that his stomach growled a good half-hour into the silent cuddling, breaking the spell.

Foggy shifted and said, "Oh, wow, you totally didn't eat lunch, did you?"

Matt shook his head, and remembered that Foggy liked him to eat three meals a day. "Sorry--"

Foggy cut him off. "No, it's okay, you had a lot on your mind. Let me go get you something."

Matt blinked and moved to get up, but Foggy's hand gently pushed him back down and Matt went to being limp and still on the bed. Implicit order: stay there. A nice, if strange, order.

"Seriously, Matt, I know the kitchen is kind of your domain, but you can rest, I'll get us some soup and crackers, mmkay? And stuff to drink."

Matt tilted his head and lay back down all the way as Foggy went to go get food for him.

Odd. He had been right so long ago, when he hadn't understood what Foggy wanted; the taking-care-of, feeding him soup, _was_ a bit of a fetish. But not--well, it violated the definition, but--not a sexual one. An emotional one. An emotional, psychological fetish.

Foggy really, genuinely liked comforting Matt. Even by doing things Matt could have happily done for himself. Not just spoiling him, rewarding him lavishly, praising him, but _repairing_ him, maintaining him, helping Matt be calmer and happier and less skittish, soothing sores and bandaging up wounds. Foggy wanted Matt to feel safe.

Matt lay on the bed, thinking about the kisses most of all. Foggy had kissed him on his collar, said in all but words, _you're mine, only mine, only mine, I own you and I'll never sell you and you're mine and mine only, forever_. It was the greatest gift he could ever have been given.

He thought about Persephone, and Hades, and though Foggy wasn't quiet and didn't smell of leather, had never chained Matt inside by rivers until Matt swallowed the pomegranate seeds, would never have made Matt stay down with the dead until he gave in, he thought about how she must have felt, knowing that she would be queen. Realizing that she had become so much more than just a captive little girl.

He thought about Salome whispering _bring me the head of John the Baptist_ , her veils off and her power absolute. He thought about the Song of Songs, about _I delight to sit in his shade_ , about _thus I have become in his eyes like one bringing contentment._ , about the cooing of doves and the season of singing. It had come at last.

Matt thought about the collar he wore, and how Foggy had gotten it _for_ him. How sweet it was, how his neck never chafed at it, how Foggy tightened it by Matt's soft, humble pleas. How he'd kissed it, his lips so plump, like ripened plums.

Even though Foggy didn't like slavery at all still, he seemed happy to own Matt, had found his use, thought Matt _beyond_ satisfactory as the stars were beyond breathtaking, and that was more than enough.

Baby steps.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from Jenny Holzer's "Plaque" series, which can be seen here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/83324693813/the-plaque-series-the-concept-art-of-jenny


	91. laugh hard at the absurdly evil

Foggy heated up a can of the Progresso soup, filled a bowl with goldfish crackers--the whole wheat kind he'd gotten by mistake, but Matt would probably be fine with--and, on second thought, grabbed some orange juice for Matt too.  
  
Then he thought about how to ask Matt about the dislocated toes.  
  
Because he _had_ to, they were a serious problem, if Matt was getting hurt--or hurting _himself_ again--and not telling Foggy, or taking care of himself, then they could get so much worse. And it wasn't like Matt had rested a lot more than usual, except for the lazy morning on the day they'd practiced.  
  
Foggy chewed it over like a piece of cartilage. He had to make sure Matt knew that he could come to him with injuries, and if Matt got hurt enough to need a doctor, Foggy was the one who had to call them and get Matt there. It was his responsibility.  
  
But all the same, if Matt was used to just the way those monsters had treated him as his primary standard of medical care, no wonder he wouldn't tell Foggy about it. If the choices were be raped and hurt and humiliated or suffer through putting your toes back in yourself, Foggy would choose the latter too.  
  
He decided to poke around a bit first and see if Matt knew any way to get better medical care before he asked Matt about the toes directly. Matt knew way more about the whole slavery system than Foggy, anyway, even if he didn't think of it as being so awful.  
  
Ugh. He had to talk to Miriam tomorrow about all this, because Foggy kept thinking things and wondering if he was being condescending or just objective, and he couldn't tell which was which.  
  
The microwave beeped. Foggy opened it, realized he couldn't take everything at once, and put the orange juice and crackers on his desk first, and then brought in the soup.  
  
As he did, Matt sat up, his shirt riding up a bit, and Foggy couldn't help but stare at the skin and the glimpses of Matt's happy trail. He wanted to run his fingers down it, over the soft hair, feel those abs--  
  
And then he remembered Matt telling him that he'd get used to being raped if Foggy would just let him lie back and think of England, and all his desire withered and died. He wouldn't rape Matt again, no matter how tempted he was.  
  
Foggy cleared his throat, and focused. "Smell good?"  
  
Matt nodded, smiling. He seemed to sometimes not be very verbal when he was really happy and relaxed; Foggy _hoped_ it was that, at least, and not him going out of it or thinking Foggy didn't want him to talk.  
  
Matt sat up and came over, slowly, and paused before gracefully kneeling in front of the desk and reaching for the bowl.  
  
"You might be more comfortable in the chair," Foggy said, if only because Matt's face came up to the edge of the desk.  
  
Matt stopped and stood up. "This one, Foggy?" he asked, one finger hovering above Foggy's desk chair.  
  
"Yeah," he said. "Seriously, it's fine."  
  
Matt nodded and smiled again, but smaller this time, and sat down, moving cautiously closer to the desk and starting to eat. Foggy hoped using his desk rather than Matt's was the right choice; he wasn't going to put things on Matt's desk as much as he wasn't going to touch Matt's bed in any way, ever.  
  
(Even when he'd raped Matt, it had been on Foggy's bed. Tiny comfort that that was.)  
  
Matt ate the soup with the same speed he always did, and devoured the crackers in record speed, never chewing with his mouth open. He then drank the orange juice in long series of swallows, making Foggy have to look out the window at the alley instead so he didn't get distracted by Matt's beautiful throat.  
  
His beautiful throat, covered with a collar.  
  
Foggy looked out the window and then Matt folded his hands in his lap for a second, and then he realized that Matt was about to put away the dishes when Foggy walked back over from where he'd been sitting on the end of his bed and got them.  
  
"Nope," he said. "Nope, I got them, the rest of today is just about you."  
  
Matt looked confused, so Foggy made sure to get back quickly and sit up against the wall on his bed. "Hey, you wanna--?" he asked, and Matt grinned and shot up, going to come over to Foggy, moving so that his head was on Foggy's stomach.  
  
At least Matt had never disliked that Foggy was chubby, and by now he had to have realized it. "You like being there?" Foggy asked, just to be sure.  
  
Matt nodded. "You are extremely comfortable," Matt said, shifting and pressing his head in gently. "It's good, Foggy."  
  
Foggy stared at him and felt a smile spread over his face. Matt was his favorite person in the entire world.  
  
"Yeah, well, I think Rosalind would disagree with you there, buddy," he said, knowing that he was fishing for compliments and not caring too much.  
  
Matt snorted. "Rosalind Sharpe wouldn't know a good thing if she bought it for seven and half million dollars at an auction," he said acidly. "I wouldn't trust her if she said water was wet."  
  
Foggy laughed at that, and bent down to kiss Matt's hair. "God," he said, still full of mirth, giddy that someone would actually take his side against her. "You've got a way with words, Matt, you know that? You're so fucking smart."  
  
Matt smiled brightly and snuggled into Foggy.  
  
They lay there for a second, and then Foggy remembered his earlier words. "Oh, right, let me up for a sec, I'll grab my laptop and then I can read you that article, it's illuminating," he got up to get it, laid back down holding his laptop, and Matt settled back into Foggy once more.  
  
God. He loved cuddling Matt. He was great at it.  
  
"Okay, so it's called _Six Reasons Why The Bureau of Slavery Is A National Joke_ ," he began. "And it says that it's all about how much it sucks, obviously, and it's also got an 'insider's perspective' on the whole thing. And it's written by one of the new writers, so it's not exactly like all the other ones.  
  
"So the introduction says," and Foggy grabbed a water bottle from somewhere in his bed and drank before going on.  
  
"'Some governmental offices are pretty competent, and that's fine. They're doing paperwork or restricting access to sub-machine guns or protecting the president or other boring shit like that. Whatever, _dedicated agent_. We here prefer to laugh at the ones that don't give a fuck, like SHIELD, the most insanely out-of-this-world fucked-up place to work (See the Top Ten Reasons Why You (Don't) Want To Work At SHIELD here). Or the ones that can't do anything right, like the Bureau of Slavery.'  
  
"Then the sixth reason is 'Underpaid and Over-budgeted'.  
  
"'The budget for the Bureau of Slavery was, this past financial year, almost twice the budget for Education, Medicaid/Medicare, and military spouse benefits combined. This is one of the weirdest budget imbalances since it came out that Homeland Security had gotten a billion dollars to make _tanks_ last month. That, however, was the result of a balls-out stupid clerical error, instead of this budget, which is 100% on purpose.  
  
"'That's insane. There's no feasible reason for it. You might be thinking that they're spending it on compensating their employees, or hiring the best of the best. You might even be thinking that they're making a safer environment. You'd be wrong. The average wage for an employee of the Bureau of Shitfuckery is a measly $17,500 a year.'"  
  
Matt tilted his head. Foggy went on to describe the picture.  
  
"There's a picture of a squirrel glaring at you, and the caption reads, 'I didn't quit working at Walmart for this, nutfuckers!'  
  
"'Our insider, Chad, gave us even more elaboration. _They don't pay the employees enough for us to stay off food stamps_ , he explained. _A lot of us have second or third jobs. I work at a call center on my weekends so I can pay rent. It's allowed because the Bureau has a sub-minimum wage for its disabled employees, so it can pay all its employees the same. And most of us are hired for just under 40 hours a week anyway, so they don't have to give benefits or bonuses._ '  
  
"'Was it Sylvia Plath or George Washington who said that 'if a company can't pay its employees enough to live, it's a fucking failure'? Either way, it's more evidence to suggest that the Bureau is a piece of shit that requires overhauling.'  
  
"'Of course, not all the employees are starving artists. That brings us to number five: Shitty Staffing.'  
  
"'If you've ever taken your slave to the Bureau for anything from a quick tetanus shot to a mandated exam, you know what absolute crackpot fuckery goes on in these places. There's a good reason why they all seem to mysteriously suck at their jobs. '  
  
"'Chad explained, _First of all, most of the employees aren't allowed to see what price a slave is, so they don't know which ones are snuff-bait and which ones are million-dollar masterpieces. It's supposed to prevent bias, but it means that they all don't bother to respect any slaves, because we don't know which ones are worth anything.'  
  
"'Second of all, the medical staff in particular are hired mostly because they're the problem children of other agencies. A lot of them have gotten sued for malpractice, discrimination, or harassment. A lot have also been rejected from other agencies for being assholes or incompetents, but they have a rich uncle or a senator husband, so they end up working at the Bureau._ '  
  
"And then there's a picture of one of those doctors from those horror movies, all mad scientist frizzy hair and fake blood on his labcoat, cackling. The caption says 'I am become death, the destroyer of economies!'  
  
"'See, when we figure out who to hire to work on maintaining a national resource, we here at Cracked don't go for the idiots who have already been fired or sued. That's why our own slaves don't end up dying at such high rates, which brings us to the next point.'"  
  
Foggy stopped and winced, running a hand through Matt's hair against his stomach. "Sorry, it's still objectifying bullshit," he said.  
  
Matt looked confused, and irritation flashed across his face. Foggy didn't push, Matt had been seriously hurt today and while he didn't seem too much like it, Foggy wouldn't push, so instead he kept reading.  
  
"'The death rates among slaves owned by the Slavery Bureau are among the highest in the country, second only to the death rates by some of the more open-air bargain-bin markets and a few of the chain-gang farms. We asked Chad why the fuck this was, and this was his response.'  
  
"' _The Bureau tends to want slaves to act even less independently than most owners. This extends to not eating or drinking without being told, and they use shock collars to enforce that. And that, plus the employee's general attitudes and the shift changes, ends up with slaves that are often dangerously dehydrated and have trouble sleeping, which snowballs into medical issues, clumsiness, and not being able to obey orders--which results in more shocks. It's a vicious cycle._ '"  
  
Foggy stopped, realizing that he'd been too caught up in his own schadenfreude at other people calling out the Bureau on their bullshit to realize what the attitude actually _was_. It wasn't abolitionist, it just said that they were wasteful. It still talked about people like they were animals and possessions.  
  
Matt made an inquiring noise against him, still cuddled up. Foggy moved to look more closely at Matt. He was relaxed, and looked calm, but awake and aware.  
  
"You okay?" he asked. "Still with me?"  
  
"Yes, Foggy," Matt said.  
  
Foggy paused, and then went on. "'Now, when we want to keep a slave obedient, we go to the more peer-reviewed side of things, like normal fucking people.' There's a picture of a woman in a blazer on the front of a book, and it's titled, uh, 'Sparing the Rod: How to Live Healthy and Happy with Obedient Slaves'. The caption is 'AKA how to not fucking KILL your IMPORTANT INVESTMENTS'.  
  
"'And if you're curious, the Bureau's actual numerical death rate of slaves in its care is a 70% death rate within the first year, and 98% within twenty years. Though Chad's said that it's even higher, which would make the Bureau just like the infamous Alexander Vukagay, who has some shocking shit to say himself.'  
  
"' _The Bureau of Slavery is a vile hive of scum and unprofessionalism_ , the literal embodiment of evil and the man famous for being the most prolific snuff-bait buyer in history said in an interview with Vanity Fair. _It is beyond the bottom of the barrel. It is the governmental equivalent of semen on rootbeer. It is a place where the staff are donkeys braying in a desert sandstorm, useless and bleating. It is a place that should be torn down and its workers all shot,_ he added, probably before going to cut off some slave's breasts or shoot another one in the dick before leaving him to die of gangrene or some other Batman villain bullshit.'"  
  
Foggy stopped, staring. He hadn't--he'd _skimmed_ the article, not read it, and only in snatches, because he'd been so fucking angry and scared and overwhelmed with guilt and worry.  
  
"I can stop," he told Matt. "If it's upsetting you--"  
  
"I'm okay, Foggy," Matt said, his lips twitching. "I'm familiar with the existence of Alexander Vukagay, I'm not upset. The article's actually very funny," he said.  
  
Foggy looked at him, and remembered how Matt's sense of humor was a bit twisted, and then paused to go back to the article. There were only two more reasons after this one.  
  
"There's a picture of what I presume is that fucking-- _monster_ \-- in a really ugly fur coat, and he's sneering, and _oh my god what is wrong with his hair_ , it looks like he's got a dead Chihuahua skinned and put on top of his head, oh fuck Matt," and Foggy started laughing against his will.  
  
Matt laughed, too, and then Foggy returned to the article. "The caption reads, 'When even the evilest of fuckers thinks you've gone too far, you've gone too fucking far'.  
  
"Then it says, 'All of this brings us to the next point, which is where all the money that's earmarked for employees goes: the directors. Reason Five: Embezzling, Meth Labs, and Kiddie Porn Oh My!'

"'The Bureau of Slavery, having been Ronald Reagan's greatest fuck-up, was established in 1982, and it's had forty directors so far and counting. Most of them last less than a year, and it's never because they just decided it wasn't for them.'  
  
"There's a picture of Reagan, photoshopped to be crying and on the body of Sharpay from High School Musical, and the caption says, 'This is not what I wanted! This is not what I planned!'  
  
"'So far, there's been cocaine use, cocaine smuggling, ties to abolitionist groups, terrorism, tantrums, assault on employees, huge amounts of corruption and embezzlement, murder, general incompetence, child pornography, ties to various mobs, recruitment by SHIELD, and most recently, the most recently fucked-up director, a Jonathan Thanman, was arrested and enslaved for using the Bureau's slaves to manufacture methamphetamines into glass doors, killing fucking huge amounts of them by poisoning and explosions. Chad chimed in.'  
  
"' _Director Thanman was completely off his rocker. He'd come down to the offices and scream at employees for no reason. He'd trash Bureau computers and throw food and rocks. One time he showed up and threatened a receptionist with a machete. Frequently, we all drew straws as to who had to clean his office, because he jacked off in there and left the semen smeared into the carpet or his chair. He had IT employees accused of treason for not installing Windows Vista on every computer. He'd sometimes come in with doughnuts for the slaves, and make them eat so many they'd throw up. He fired anyone who liked the Battlestar Galactica remake better than the original. It was no surprise to anyone that he was on meth, though the sheer scope of how much he forced those poor people to make was just insane._ '  
  
"'And his efforts paid off, in the sense that Thanman's seized assets equated to approximately fifteen million dollars, plus several houses in the Catskills. But he's not going to be enjoying them from Monsanto's farms in Idaho, where he'll be working on corn and probably die within five years like the fucking idiot he is.'"  
  
Matt cackled at that, triumphantly. Foggy grinned. He was glad that this asshole, at least, had gotten something like what he deserved.  
  
(But wasn't slavery something that _nobody_ deserved? Foggy had to think about it more later. Not now.)  
  
"'And one of the most recent director's decisions is one that brings us up to our number-one biggest reason why the Bureau of Skullfucking is a national joke: they put MOTHERFUCKING BOMBS into their slaves.'  
  
"There's a picture of a mushroom cloud with the 'yuck' smiley on top of it," Foggy told Matt, and then went on.  
  
"'The bomb implants were first suggested in 1999, when they were beta-tested from Russia as part of diplomatic smoothing-over. At first, they were hooked up to wire remotes, and it limited the Bureau's slaves' movements. However, pretty soon, the bomb implants were made smaller and wireless, and the Bureau implanted all its slaves in 2010.'  
  
"'However, this has turned out to be a completely stupid fucking idea, because the bombs keep going off, as bombs are made to do. It substantially increases the death rate, as well as causing trillions of dollars of damages to the Bureau, as the implants sometimes daisy-chain to fuck up this idiotic institution's entire day.'  
  
"'Chad explained their solution and reasoning. _The bombs were put in at first just to ensure that no slave could feasibly ever escape or work with any abolitionist groups. But those ones were in the stomach, and they tended to blow up a whole room, and they were so sensitive that even cellphones could set them off by accident. And they didn't want to admit their idea was stupid, or back down.'_  
  
"'So they reduced the size and put them in the chest instead, but they still go off at times by accident, and if they daisy-chain then it can start fires and kill a whole dormitory's worth, so instead the slaves are caged at set distances, apart from each other. It's not good for a them; a lot of them end up catatonic or otherwise completely starved, and we end up having to clean up a lot of messes that are completely preventable.'"  
  
Foggy stopped reading it, and reached down to hug Matt. Matt squirmed up into his arms, so that his head was on Foggy's chest, and they stopped and breathed together for a minute.  
  
"You want the rest?" Foggy asked Matt, who nodded.  
  
"Okay," he said, and went for it. "Uh--there's a link there to what it looks like when they go off, which, wow, nope to the millionth, I am not fucking looking at that, I will have nightmares for weeks, wow, holy shit. Anyway. Um. Then it says, 'See, we at Cracked often ask ourselves the question of 'why do they do this' about acts of stupidity, but ultimately the answer is always the same. It's because they're just that fucking stupid.' Then there's some links, but, yeah, that's the article."  
  
Matt pressed into him, and Foggy wrapped his arms around Matt again, rubbing his back, more to comfort Foggy himself. Matt was alive and safe and okay. Matt wasn't blowing up or isolated or caged. Matt was safe. He wouldn't let anyone hurt Matt, not if he could help it, so long as he lived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also taken from Jenny Holzer's work, here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/83324693813/the-plaque-series-the-concept-art-of-jenny


	92. thinking of my molding bathtub and how much blood could fill it

 

Matt closed his eyes and breathed in and out, trying to soothe Foggy a bit. He wasn't upset, and wasn't exactly sure why Foggy was, except that there was probably something in Foggy's axiomatic morality about caring about _all_ slaves, not just his own.

But that didn't work. Not every slave could be a doll; nothing would ever get _done_. It just wasn't possible.

Matt curled into Foggy, feeling the softness of his stomach, and felt a flash of white-hot rage at Rosalind Sharpe for ever acting as if Foggy's body was wrong. It was, first of all, a _person's_ body, and therefore couldn't really be wrong or defective. And second of all, it was lovely, and there was nothing about Foggy's health that actually worried Matt, apart from the mild sleep disorder.

His blood pressure and heart rate sounded normal, if a bit out of shape, to Matt. Foggy's blood smelled fine. So what if Foggy was softer than many other human bodies?

He thought to himself, almost petulantly, that even if Foggy _really_ was out of shape, a pinnacle of gluttony, what did that matter? Foggy was a free person. It was his right. It wasn't anything to do with anything. And besides, this way it made Matt's job so much better. Touching someone who was pleasant to touch was easier, and Foggy was clean and warm and soft, so delectable to be cuddled by.

Matt enjoyed it for a few more minutes, until Foggy said, "Hey, Matt, sorry to break the mood--"

And Matt continued to be vaguely annoyed by and mostly confused with Foggy's bizarre insistence on _apologizing to Matt_ \--

"But I do have to ask you--what was up with those toes?"

Matt went frozen.

\--

Foggy felt Matt go from relaxed and calm and snuggly to completely rock-hard tense all over, and winced at himself. Good going, Nelson. Completely freak out the guy you love.

"Hey, no," he said gently. "I--look, what part of that is scaring you? Telling me how they got dislocated?"

Matt hesitates, but nods against Foggy's chest and curls up tighter into himself.

"Okay, okay," Foggy said, and impulsively reaches up an arm to stroke Matt's hair, and hopefully relax him a bit. "What I want is for you to not get hurt, or if you do get hurt or sick, I want for you to get better, okay?

"I don't--I'm not trying to freak you out here, and you're a person, you have the right to privacy, but it _is_ kind of my job to make sure you stay okay, so if you get hurt in the future, please tell me, alright? And I was gonna ask you, and I should have led with this--are there any good places for you to get medical care? Not with those fuckheads."

Matt relaxed a little at the words and the hair-stroking, and then he licked his lips--goddamn, they were beautiful--and said, throat sounding dry with fear, "I've gotten medical care from auction-houses and my trainers before, Foggy."

"Auction houses?" Foggy asked him. "They had the good kind, I'm guessing?"

Matt nods. "Yes, Foggy. Each agency usually has its own in-house staff, and they're very efficient. They have incentives not to damage the goods. Though some of them can...like jokes," and Foggy looks at Matt carefully enough that he sees the minute twitch of Matt's jaw at that, and realizes that he means them being dicks for their own amusement.

"Okay, well, I'll keep that in mind," Foggy said. "Anywhere else?"

Matt looked more thoughtful now. "Some of my owner have hired private human veterinarians," he said, and Foggy wanted to vomit at the term. Jesus christ.

"But--" Matt chewed on his lip. "They tend to be a bit...out of our budget, Foggy," he said. "And quite exclusive."

Foggy hmm'd. "Okay," he said. "Maybe--I'll ask around, the Nelsons are kind of a big family, one of is probably a doctor or something, and they'd be willing to help, or at least hook us up with someone better," and Matt smiled.

"We could always ask my trainers again for help," Matt offered. "Summer's still very invested in my continuing health."

Foggy breathed out sharply, and Matt's face lost its emotion. Goddamnit. "No offense," Foggy said, and pulled Matt even closer. "But I wouldn't let either of those two people near with you a thirty-nine-and-a-half-inch pole. Fuck them."

Matt looked confused and there was something around his eyes that read to Foggy as disguised, controlled anger, but he nodded. "Yes, Foggy," and Foggy had to breathe in deeply, on purpose, to calm down.

"Anyway," Foggy said. "You really don't have to tell me if it scares you but--Matt--if you do want to tell me how you got hurt, if you get hurt, I can promise that all I'll do is get you medical care and maybe accidentally mother-hen you a bit. I don't know what most of your other--what the other people who owned you did to you when you got hurt, but I promise I will do my best to not be a dick. Okay?"

\--

Matt felt so intensely confused that his head spun. He made the appropriate noises and then Foggy sighed and they went back to quiet cuddling.

Foggy sometimes felt like a Rubik's cube: no matter how hard he tried, he _couldn't fucking solve it_.

His previous owners had, mostly, just gotten him medical care as needed, or let him patch it up. He _didn't_ have a right to privacy, and he _wasn't_ a person, and Foggy _would_ be angry if Matt told him that he was the one who had damaged his property. Not permanently, but Foggy had told him he didn't want Matt to be hurt or to hurt himself, and what had Matt done? _Just that_.

Matt felt like such a defective, worthless fuckup. He wished he was back in training, because at least then, he would have been sure that all those problem areas would be attended to, his wrong thoughts pruned with the sharpest of shears. But he wouldn't be allowed any more contact with Summer, it seemed, because now that Winter had made his power play, Foggy had made one right back.

It felt unfair that Foggy said so often that Matt should be given whatever he wanted, except when what Matt wanted was to be better for Foggy, Foggy wouldn't let him.

But that was how all owners were, in the end. That was normal. Matt got things he wanted when his owners decided to give them to him, and if they wanted him to want different things, then that was what he had to do.

Matt closed his eyes and resolved to read more Thurgood Marshall tomorrow, and to look up ways to fix your thoughts that didn't involve physical pain. He needed badly to stop being so angry at Foggy.

Thank goodness his body, at least, was still obedient, and remained there, touching Foggy and staying calm. They fell asleep there, him and Foggy, in the late afternoon sunshine, Matt slipping into it as Foggy's heartbeat went down to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also comes from Jeanann Verlee's "The Session".


	93. a rape victim and a victim of a fatal accident are both gone forever. the difference is that the rape victim still has to go through the motions of being alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strong trigger warning for Matt dreaming that Foggy sexually assaulted him, and being unable to tell if it was a dream. (It was.)
> 
> Also, strong trigger warning for self-loathing, internalized shame, and sex-shaming.

  
Matt didn't know it was a dream at all until some time after he woke up.  
  
In the dream--in retrospect, that's where it had started--Matt woke up to find Foggy hard against him, and Foggy awake.  
  
"Hey, Matt," Foggy said, and kissed him on the forehead, and Matt smiled.  
  
"Hi, Foggy," he said, almost teasing, and Foggy kissed him again, and on his collar too, and Matt moaned at how perfect that felt, how safe.  
  
And then Foggy shifted and said, "Uh, Matt, I'm sorry, but I gotta ask you to help me out a bit here."  
  
And ice-water flooded Matt's veins, but he made sure to smile and bear it, because that was what Foggy wanted. Him happy and smiling.  
  
"I'm sorry," Foggy repeated. "But I can't just do nothing anymore. Let me make it okay for you," he said, and gently pulled at Matt, closer. Closer.  
  
"What--what if you don't have to take off any of your clothes or anything, just, um, a little mouth action? Would that be okay?"  
  
Matt blinked and nodded. He could do that. He would do anything for Foggy; Foggy deserved anything.  
  
And a little of his pride reignited. He was good at blowjobs. He could do this, no matter how much a part of him was sobbing in his head, begging, crying at how unfair it was.  
  
Promises never meant anything anyway.  
  
Matt wriggled down to be face level with Foggy's groin, the heat coming off his cock like a brand, pressing into Master Robert's pets, the stink of the burning.  
  
Foggy stopped him. "Here," he said gently. "Here, you don't have to, here, it's okay, let me--" and he undid his pants, pulling out his erection so Matt had to touch it as little as possible.  
  
"I'm sorry," Foggy repeated. "But, Matt, I need--"  
  
"I know, Foggy," Matt murmured, and bent his head down and swallowed it to the root. It didn't taste particularly bad.  
  
Matt licked and sucked and did the usual motions, the queasiness in his stomach returning like an old, old friend. Foggy stroked his hair and called him good and said sorry, sorry, sorry Matt I'm so sorry, it won't happen again, I'm sorry.  
  
But it would. Now it would happen again, and again, and sooner or later it might be Matt being naked and bent over, or Matt naked and lying on the bed.  
  
It wouldn't be so bad. He'd get used to it.  
  
Foggy came and Matt swallowed it, and then he murmured, "Can I go brush my teeth, Foggy?"  
  
"Yeah, of course, Matt," Foggy said, and Matt rose and brushed his teeth and gargled the mouthwash he had never opened before, almost gagging.  
  
Then he came back into the bedroom.  
  
"Hey, Matt, c'mere," Foggy said, and Matt went obediently into his arms.  
  
Foggy held him tightly and sweetly against his chest, and kissed his collarbones and his forehead, and stroked his hair and rocked a little back and forth. "I'm sorry," he said. "I really am. But I promise, no sex."  
  
Matt must have looked confused, because Foggy said, "Nobody's clothes came off, so it's not sex. It was just--you helping me out. Thanks, Matt, you're the best," and he kissed Matt on the collar, making him shiver.  
  
Foggy held Matt, and it was okay, and then eventually they both fell asleep again, a part of Matt still crying in the very back of his skull.  
  
\--  
  
Matt woke up hard.  
  
He couldn't tell what had happened, but he knew he was hard, and it terrified him. This _never_ happened to him, not once, not since he'd been thirteen and then Summer had sat him down and started verbally teaching him all the sex tricks she knew and wearing away at his gag reflex with a metal stick.  
  
He knew only that Foggy _couldn't_ know, so he hastily slipped out and almost ran to the bathroom, turning on the shower to cold and sitting under it, not even remembering to undress.  
  
He sat, huddled against a corner, and breathed hard and shallow.  
  
What had just happened? What was wrong with him? He wasn't supposed to do this. He wasn't supposed to get hard unless he was ordered to. He wasn't supposed to _want_ sex, sex was--sex was nausea, and a suppressed panic, and the feeling of getting used to it. It wasn't _good_ , it wasn't a real reward, even orgasms were tinged by something indefinably contaminating.  
  
Matt dug his fingernails into his thighs through his pajamas, unable to even make himself hurt where it counted. He rocked back and forth involuntarily, almost crying.  
  
He didn't understand what was wrong with him.  
  
He'd always thought it was a sign of brokenness, for a slave to actively want to be used by their owner. Not for the praise, not for the owner calming down, not for the owner being nicer, not to be good--just for being used itself. He'd thought it disgusting and beneath him and utterly contemptible.  
  
And yet here he was, hard, because Foggy had used him--or had he? Matt didn't know if it was a dream or real, and he couldn't very well ask Foggy.  
  
He was so fucking worthless, he thought to himself viciously. Such a worthless stupid broken slut who deserved everything he got. He didn't deserve to even be allowed clothes, or walking upright, or talking, not if he was such a contemptible little grotesque creature that he _wanted_ to be used.  
  
He wasn't ever supposed to _want_ it. Summer had talked about it like it was being whipped--  
  
But she'd also told Matt to initiate sex with Foggy, back when he'd had a complete breakdown, but--  
  
But that had been _wrong_ , Matt had done it and Foggy had cried over it, Foggy had been so upset, it still made Foggy feel bad about himself, Foggy sometimes still apologized to Matt over it, Foggy thought it was _rape_ , it had been bad advice and the wrong tactic to take--  
  
Summer could be wrong. She had read Foggy _wrong_ , and her main talent was reading people, she could scan people like Matt could scan texts, and that meant she _could be wrong_ , even about big things. Maybe she had been wrong all along. Maybe it was different if you were a male slave, or maybe it was different if your owner wasn't asexual, or maybe it was different if you were a doll and not a service-slave combination. Maybe--  
  
Maybe Matt had been wrong all along, maybe Matt was _supposed_ to want it. Maybe he wasn't a defective little breathing-fleshlight slut.  
  
He closed his eyes and shook. He didn't know how to tell it one way or the other, and either way he lost--if he wasn't supposed to want it, then he was defective, and if he was supposed to want it, then he had been defective for a long time and had to start making up for it.  
  
He didn't _want_ to want to be used. He didn't want to have to feel like this, panicked and terrified and unsure of reality. He still didn't know if it was a dream, or a fantasy, or reality, if Foggy had really decided that blowjobs weren't sex so Matt had to give them.  
  
Matt hit his head against the wall once, twice, and then three blessed times. It hurt, beautifully, and the momentary pain sliced through his thoughts.  
  
Matt was so cold in the shower. He realized his fingers and toes were numb, and so were his limbs.  
  
He struggled to get up, but his memory held, and he shut off the water with difficulty. Then he realized he was still in soaking wet, icy pajamas, and cursed himself. God. He hated this stupid fucking episodes he was having now that he was Foggy's. They were pointless.  
  
Matt stripped off, and then hesitated, but hung them over the shower rod, stumbling. Then he forced himself to walk, naked, back into the bedroom and in his haze of fear and self-loathing, he slumped to the floor, not on his bed. The bed that he didn't deserve and shouldn't use anyway; he should be in his owner's bed, serving them. Getting used to it. But he couldn't make himself get back in Foggy's bed, not when that had meant that he'd had to put his mouth on Foggy, not when it meant that the no-sex rule didn't really mean no sex anymore.  
  
Matt curled up, naked, on the floor, and thought. If it turned out he'd been defective for years but was getting better, then that was good, and Foggy would have a good slave. If he'd been right and he wasn't supposed to want it and it was just some coding error in his machine of a body, then he'd deal with it.  
  
Worst-case scenario, he'd just hurt it until it couldn't get hard anymore. Spill hot coffee on his black jeans. Cut it off, maybe. Have an 'accident'.  
  
That sounded good to him as he drifted back into an exhausted, adrenaline-comedown sleep. Having an accident, or begging enough for a formal removal. Foggy would probably be nice to him if it happened. Matt might even get the good painkillers, and they could cuddle, watch Legally Blonde together again and laugh at the good parts. Matt would be safe again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is inspired by a quote by Jodi Picoult: "The thing that most people didn’t understand, if they weren’t in his line of work, was that a rape victim and a victim of a fatal accident were both gone forever. The difference was that the rape victim still had to go through the motions of being alive."


	94. don’t beg for forgiveness like I’m one of them

 

 

 

Foggy woke up around one in the morning, looked at his laptop to see that it was still there and one in the morning, and yawned, reaching for Matt--

Who wasn't there. Foggy looked around, and saw in faint moonlight and flourescents, that he was lying on the floor, curled up tight, sleeping naked.

Foggy looked at Matt for a minute, and debated what to do. He didn't want to upset Matt by waking him up, but that couldn't be comfortable or safe. It was too cold out for shit like that.

Foggy thought it over. Matt had--well, today, Matt had been raped, there wasn't any other word for it, and Foggy hadn't been able to stop it. And Matt probably didn't want to be touched anymore, not if he'd woken up and moved away from Foggy.

Foggy nodded. Okay. He knew what to do, then.

He got up, stepped around Matt, and put his own blankets on top of him, carefully layering them so that Matt's feet, hands, and back were all covered, and that there were plenty, so he could get warm. It didn't feel hot in the apartment at all.

Then he moved to the living room, went back to the bedroom just for his computer, and ordered some pizza online. When Matt woke up, food would probably help. Matt had never turned down food, not that Foggy had ever seen. And he wouldn't ask why. He wouldn't push. He'd pushed Matt fucking far enough today.

Foggy made sure to get some of Matt's favorite toppings--bacon and mushrooms--and also drinks. Sometimes an injection of sugar really helped out a situation. Then he looked up baby blanket patterns, and lost himself in truly cute pictures of babies all decked out in pretty clothes, and started to make plans.

\--

Matt woke up under some things that were warm and heavy.

He was confused for a minute, because he was pretty sure he had fallen asleep under Foggy, and yet he was also pretty sure he was on a floor. Had he rolled out of bed? Or been kicked out? That didn't seem quite Foggy's _style_...

And then he remembered waking up hard and soaking himself in cold water and shaking, and he winced. God, he hated panicking, and what a mess he was sometimes. It was beneath him to be such a little untrained moron. It was beneath Foggy to have to put up with it.

But Foggy had put blankets on him, a lot of them, and that meant he probably wasn't too annoyed. Matt sat up, and got out a pair of sweatpants, a shirt, and a hoodie, and dressed quickly. It was far too cold to be naked.

Then he got up and moved, cautiously, to find Foggy sitting in the living room, eating pizza and on his laptop, fingers touching it.

"Hey, Matt," Foggy said. "It's like, three in the morning, but I was hungry and we both slept through dinner, ergo, pizza."

Matt took a piece of pizza, feeling like he was about to get in trouble for some indefinable reason. He waited for Foggy to ask why he was naked and on the floor, to have to explain that he'd hit his head against the wall, put himself into serious danger like that, but no questions came.

\--

The morning proper, Foggy asked Matt if he wanted to be dropped off at the Nelson's, and Matt had ended up agreeing. He needed to try to get a little outside perspective to tell if it had been a dream, or if Foggy really had used him and now things had changed.

Matt found Bee Elle in the bedroom that they almost never left now, hiding in there from the world.

"Hey," he murmured as he came in and shut the door behind him. "You're still alive?"

[Hi, asshole,] they tapped against the bedspread. [Come over here and we'll start reading that horrible collar-ripper together. I got a free speech-to-text app, so you can hear it with me.]

Matt smiled and slipped past the bed, into the crack between that and the wall with them. Bee was, blissfully, still Bee, still abrasive and hiding from people. And even now that they were a person, they hadn't asserted their authority.

(And if they tried anything, if they tried anything at all, even if blowjobs didn't count, Matt would scream. Even if Foggy lectured him about not listening and made him eat them out because it wasn't really sex afterwards, it would be better than doing nothing and _then_ being punished.)

They started up the app, and it began to read out some of the absolute worst prose Matt had ever heard, and he'd read Hemingway. Matt started laughing by the fifth page, and by the tenth both of them were in stitches, laughing too hard to hear, and they had to pause it.

[Oh GOD,] they tapped on the floor, an inch still between Matt and them. [I didn't know it was this bad!]

[Me neither,] Matt tapped back, convulsing. [God. But before--before you start it, I need some advice.]

They stopped and tilted their head, their hair swishing against their shoulder.

[Did you ever have a dream that you weren't sure if it was real, but you couldn't ask your owner if it was?]

Their body changed from laughing to stiff, but before they could respond there was a knock and the door swung open.

"Hey," Candace said brightly. "We're all going to get some Christmas shopping done, and I was wondering if you two would like to come? There's also gonna be Starbucks involved."

Matt blinked and thought. He wasn't sure if he was allowed, but this was the best avenue to get Foggy's Christmas present, and Foggy had given Matt the means to give one that wasn't food or a very good orgasm, so Matt should give him one.

(More than that, Matt _wanted_ to give him one. A good one. Foggy was so generous.)

Matt stood up, and said, "If Anna's sure Foggy won't mind," he said tentatively.

"Uh, that's weird, but okay. _Moooom!_ Can you come tell Matt that Foggy wouldn't caaare?"

There was the sound of booted footsteps, and Anna came near. "Candace, Foggy would care."

Matt's heart sank.

"But so long as we all take some basic precautions, we should be fine," Anna said. "I mean that my son would care to make sure you'd be safe and sound, but I think we're quite capable of that."

"I'm coming too," Bee's tablet voiced.

Matt relaxed, and made sure to get his things, including the bag Foggy had given him, which had fifty dollars, and also his wallet with a card that had Foggy's number on it, and the debit card Foggy had gotten in the mail that morning for the account that Matt was allowed to use.

(A bank account, just for him. It made his head spin.)

Matt hesitated over his jacket. If he was to use a debit card, without the owner of that account nearby, if the store cashier asked for proof, he'd have to call Foggy and bother him, and that would defeat the entire purpose.

But if he was wearing a scarf--

He swallowed, and decided to take a chance. "Could I borrow a scarf, Miss Anna? I seem to have left mine at home, I'm terribly sorry."

"Just Anna, and of course," she said, and put one in his hands after a rustle. "It's dark brown, you look dashing."

Matt flinched internally, but nothing came of that comment. He wound the scarf around his neck, uncomfortably warm, and off they went, Matt breathing around the clamping terror in his lungs.

 

\--

 

Bee looked at Matt in the car as they went to the mall.

Matt looked--well, to them he looked scared, but they supposed that to free people he'd look calm. His face was blank and his hands were tucked into his pockets.

They looked at the scarf and gently asked him, hand on his, [Can I move your scarf a bit so it covers up the collar all the way?]

Matt blinked and nodded. They did, and then asked him, [Not that I don't approve, but why are you covering it up?]

[If anyone asks to get proof that I'm allowed to use this card, I'll have to call Foggy and get approval,] Matt explained. [And I don't want to inconvenience him. Especially not now.]

That ignited a low rage in their gut. Matt was an asshole and crazy and kind of haughty, like a cat, but he was viciously kind where it counted. He'd come through for them, and he spent so much time and effort thinking about how to make Foggy Nelson happy. He deserved better than to have to be so worried.

They got to the mall, and Candace turned, her curls bouncing, and said, "So, where do you want to go first?"

There was an awkward second, and then Anna Nelson said, "Let's try the bookstore, first, I want to see if they've got any good ones for Edward," and so they went.

Matt hadn't brought his cane--he didn't often bring it to places, probably out of habit--but Bee had watched Foggy guide him often enough that they could do it.

Except, as it turned out, it was a bit more work than they'd thought. They had to focus to not walk Matt into anything, and by the time they'd got to the bookstore, Matt was almost smirking.

[Asshole,] they said. [This is not as easy as it looks.]

[Really? It looks pretty easy to me.]

[But how--dammit, Matt!] and Matt cracked up, and Bee smiled against their will. Matt had finally relaxed a bit around them, and they kept guiding him down the aisles, looking at everything.

[I don't know what to get Foggy,] he confessed.

They turned their head to stare at him. [You're planning on shoplifting?]

[No, he gave me a card, didn't you hear? And money on it. So I can buy him things. And maybe myself things too.]

They arched an eyebrow. Foggy Nelson seemed even more complicated a puzzle the more they heard about him. But maybe he was like that asshole in that book they and Matt had started. Christian Grey seemed pretty nice, too, except for how he was wasn't.

They walked further into the aisles together, Bee waiting for Matt to reignite the questioning.

[You were asking me something before we left.]

[Oh, right. I was going to ask you--have you ever had a dream about something an owner did, and you weren't sure if it was a dream or real? I know it sounds stupid and childish--]

[Yes.]

[Oh. What about?]

[They told me it was a dream. It wasn't.]

Matt blinked and reached to briefly tangle his hand with them, and squeezed. He didn't press, which was good, because the world suddenly seemed to shrink and distort as they thought about that particular little game the cunt twins had liked to play.

[What was it you think you might have dreamed?] they asked Matt, dreading the answer, but determined to help their only friend.

[I think Foggy might have used me,] he replied, reaching out his other hand to trail along some books' spines. [Used my mouth, I mean. He didn't take my clothes off, or use me conventionally. He kept saying sorry...]

They gritted their teeth and lifted their chin. [Did he tell you it was a dream?]

[I can't ask Foggy if it was a dream or not,] Matt replied, face faintly hurt. [What if he takes it to mean that that's what I want?]

That was a fair point. [Was there anything in there that was specific? Maybe you could poke and see if he recognizes the phrase.]

Matt paused and tilted his head. [He said, at the end of it, that it didn't violate the no-sex rule because it was just my mouth...]

Bee snarled involuntarily, their jaw grinding. They _hated_ Foggy Nelson right there and then, couldn't stand the thought of him hurting Matt like that and then fucking acting like it was nothing.

Fuck him, him and his stupid fucking no-sex rule that they had thought was for real. Fuck him. Fuck him and fuck their prior idea of him as a good person. Clearly he just wanted them out of the way so that he could better hurt Matt. Clearly, he thought that if they were free, they wouldn't care about their friend anymore.

Well, he had fucked with the wrong goddamn person. [Matt,] they said, lifting their chin and noticing that he looked alarmed now that they were angry. [Matt, you have to start fighting back.]

[What?]

[You have to fight back. You're stronger than Foggy, you're smarter. You can find some way to get out of this.]

[Don't be ridiculous,] Matt responded. [I can't do something to hurt him. He's my owner.]

They threw their head back and sighed in exasperation. [If he's fucking you, and using your mouth is fucking you, then he's not special anymore, he's just another one of them. One of them who's been playing the long game.]

[You think Foggy's been so good to me just to build it up to make me think I'm crazy when he uses me?] Matt responded, arching an eyebrow. [That really doesn't seem like his style.]

[You don't know what his fucking style is. For all you know, he's finally getting what he wants now that you're indoctrinated enough to lap up his bullshit.]

Matt glared at a point three inches to the left of them. [I can't be around you if you're going to say things like this.]

They sighed again, and massaged their forehead. [I'm not saying hurt him.] Not yet. [I'm saying, fight back. Do something to yourself so you can check it to see if it's real or not later. Do something to make him stop. Pretend you're having a flashback. He gets really upset when he thinks those are happening.]

Matt himself sighed, and then nodded. [I'll take it under advisement.]

[No, don't. Actually defend yourself for once.]

He looked bitter as he caustically replied, [Yes, Mistress Bee.]

They stepped back and flinched involuntarily. [Fuck you. I'm not one of them.]

[Yes, you are,] he replied, and they realized they'd taken a full loop back to where Anna Nelson and Foggy's sister--they kept forgetting her name--were standing with full bags.

 

\--

 

Matt thought about how to ask Foggy if his the unspoken definition of sex had changed, and decided to make sure to telegraph his fear as strongly as he could when he did. Foggy was consistently distressed by Matt's distress, and as much as it was his job to make Foggy happy, if he didn't know the parameters of the rules, he couldn't do that. And Matt would be extra good for Foggy afterwards to make up for it--and besides, Foggy genuinely seemed to like comforting him.

Of course, if it turned out it hadn't been a dream, Matt would just have to live with it. He'd lived through a lot of things before. He'd live through this, too.

But a part of him was quietly sure that it had just been a horrible dream, and Foggy hadn't used him. Not when even the idea of it seemed to make Foggy queasy, not when Foggy was so firmly against it in his bizarre, circus-mirror morality. Foggy was so kind, so generous, that it would surprise Matt if he turned out to have twisted around the definition of sex like that.

Bee managed to guide him fairly well as they caught up with Anna and Candace, who declared that now they had to go ahead and grab some things from Lush, who were apparently having a sale.

Matt told them quietly, "I think it really was just a dream. It would be very inconsistent if it wasn't."

"What was just a dream?" Candace asked, and Matt froze.

"Candace," Anna said disapprovingly. "Stop eavesdropping. Come and help me find some of that one lotion you got me one time, I'm in need of some for my office," and swept her away.

Matt relaxed. Bee sighed. [Let's talk about something else.]

Matt nodded.

[Why were you away all yesterday? And the day before that? Seems a bit of a long stretch.]

[Foggy had to take me in to the Bureau for a mandated medical and obedience test,] Matt explained.

[You're sure he had to?]

[Yes. I can hear heartbeats, don't you remember? I know lies when I hear them. Foggy didn't lie to me about that.]

Bee sighed and slumped. [I'm afraid I left you behind,] they tapped, Matt smelling salt brimming in their eyes. [I'm scared that you were right and now I've left you behind and you're going to get hurt, and I can't help you.]

Matt blinked. Oh, no. "No," he said quietly out loud from where the two of them were standing, pretending to be examining some display of what Matt guessed were the bath bombs. "No, you didn't. You had a chance, and you took it. You couldn't've not taken it."

[You said--you asked me not to.]

"I don't remember that," Matt said, frowning.

[You all but asked me not to,] they said, and Matt focused on their face. Their lower lip was trembling. [And I did anyway, I left you behind. And I can't help you now.]

"Don't be ridiculous," Matt said quietly, pressing in closely. "I'm okay. I don't need your help, I'm okay. It was almost certainly just a dream, and I'll ask Foggy, and he'll probably spend a good fifteen minutes hugging me and telling me it's okay and promising to never use me again." The more he had to argue that, the more it felt true.

[It's not fucking okay,] and then they turned away, and Matt could feel how hot their skin was becoming.

"It's fine," he said, voice now in a whisper, "It's fine, this is what I'm supposed to be. This is what it took years to make, years of careful effort. I'm not a damsel in distress. Foggy's a good owner, the best owner I've ever had, and now things are good. Remember when he owned you, too?"

They breathed deeply, and Matt tried to control himself and his own breathing. He didn't like their distress. He wanted them to stop being so on-the-verge-of-tears angry.

"Hey," he said gently. "Foggy was even nice to me during the exams. He was. He held my hand, and they wouldn't let him hold me properly, but he held me as much as he could, and he wouldn't let anyone touch me who wasn't a medic. And he hates them for doing that. He let me go for a run afterwards. He's not a bad owner. He's not like those--those--cockroaches who starved you. You don't have to fight him."

They sighed, and calmed down, just in time for Candace to come out of the store, and say with a grin in her voice, "Okay, where to next?"

Matt blinked. "I don't know what to get Foggy," he said, hoping to steer away the conversation.

"Well," Anna said. "I think I have a few ideas, though only one could be bought in this mall. Would you like to try that out, then?"

Matt nodded.

"Alright," Anna said brightly. "Ms Elle, follow me," and she led the way.

\--

They decided that Matt's words combined into one thing: they'd have to tell Foggy to knock it off _tonight_.

If Foggy Nelson was just being a bit clueless, like he was back when he tried to tell Matt that he wanted Matt to be free, not be a doll, then they had overreacted and they would calm their shit.

If he was doing it deliberately, they'd figure it out some other way.

But now that Matt had gotten so quickly to the heart of their feelings, they could tell clearly that it was more a case of their guilt than their honest assessment being correct. They felt horrible, lazing around, hiding away like a weak pet, enjoying freedom and yet not. Meanwhile, Matt was just as crazy and just as unwilling to defend himself. He wouldn't even _try_.

But then again, now they had power, and they could repay Matt someday, somehow, with the only way they could.

They would find some way, come hell or high water, to free Matt.

\--

When they came to the store, which Bee described as being called "The Film Orgy", and was apparently full of DVDs from top to bottom, Anna paused and her head turned, her hat moving against her ears.  
  
"Matt, if you please, come walk with me," she said. "Candace, why don't you go find something for Edward?"  
  
"Sure, and don't come for me until I'm checking out," she said, and shot off. Bee hovered anxiously, and then strode off too, tapping out before, [Gotta go find something.]  
  
Matt was left alone with Anna. Anna, Foggy's mother.  
  
"Now," she said, sticking out her elbow awkwardly, "How do I actually do this?"  
  
Matt blinked. "I can navigate with just my senses," he offered, wincing at the lack of a _ma'am_ or _Miss Anna_ at the end of it. It felt rude.  
  
"Well, certainly," she said. "Walk with me, please, I'd like to talk to you alone for a little while."  
  
Matt forced himself to walk.  
  
As they went, Anna explained, "I'm looking for those Alexander Farragut movies. Foggy owns all but three, and if you gave them to him, he'd be delighted."  
  
"Thank you," Matt murmured. That was good; her heartbeat was steady and calm.   
  
"Now," she said as they passed some shelves, "I'm afraid I have to begin by offering you an apology."  
  
Matt stumbled, caught flat-footed. "Huh?" he managed, surprised beyond words.  
  
"I apologize to you for my part in how we originally treated you," Anna said, continuing to walk, Matt going after her, almost walking into a case full of films. "My only explanation is that I've never been much around any enslaved people for cultural reasons and, in my discomfort with you, I rationalized away what I was doing as giving you space.   
  
"Foggy has since pointed out that it was cruel to treat you like a bad smell and hope you'd just go away if we ignored you long enough, and he's right. I apologize to you, and I promise to ensure that my home is your home, and if anything were to happen to Foggy, I promise I would take as good care of you as I was physically capable of."  
  
Matt tried to process that. Had Foggy learned his entire strange worldview from her? Was his father also like this? Were all the Nelsons so confusing and bizarre?  
  
"Thank you, ma'am," he said, and winced at himself. God. He was better-trained than using the wrong address.  
  
"Just Anna, please," she said, and began to keep her head still, in the way that Matt had learned sighted people did when they were just moving their eyes to look for something.  
  
"Now, Matt," Anna added on. "You seem uncomfortable with Candace. I want to assure you that if you don't feel comfortable telling Foggy about anything she does, you can and should tell me, understand? I'm her mother. I'm responsible for ensuring the adult I send out into the world isn't hurting anyone."  
  
Matt wasn't included in 'anyone'--being a slave precluded that--but that also required a response. "Yes, I understand."  
  
Her head turned and he felt her eyes on him. "Do you, really? Because--well, let me explain. Candace is one of those people who, at this stage of life, not only believe themselves immortal, but believe themselves quite incapable of doing any real harm to anyone else.   
  
"If she's making you uncomfortable, or crossing lines, she might not notice, and if she's endangering you, she might rationalize it away. And I promise that I will not be angry at you if you choose to come to me with a complaint about her behavior. If she's making you uncomfortable, she needs to stop. Is that clearer?"  
  
Matt nodded. That was clearer. He wasn't sure why Anna was flexing her authority over Candace, or giving him orders--maybe to prepare him for having her be a temporary owner, if something hurt Foggy?--but she was clear about what he could do: tell her.  
  
He would have to bite the bullet, then, and either reiterate more firmly to Candace that he was Foggy's and Foggy's alone, or else go to Foggy, or go to Anna. He filed that away as something to deal with later.  
  
"Ah," Anna suddenly said, and plucked out three DVDs. "Here we go. Here, take these. You've got money? Each is twenty dollars, I'll pay for anything you can't afford."  
  
Matt nodded. "Yes, Anna," he said. There was about a hundred and sixty-five dollars in the account, he'd checked online.  
  
She went still, and Matt was unsure why, and then she composed herself again. "Alright," she said. "Well, I suppose then we should check out, then, if we're to make a final few stops before we go back. Foggy worries a bit much about you. Tell me if he's getting too smothering, I'll talk some sense into him again, alright?"  
  
Matt had no idea what _too smothering_ could possibly mean in context to him. He tried to extrapolate based on what free people thought smothering, but it failed; he was a doll. If Foggy wanted to wrap him in cotton wool and never let him leave his bed for fragility's sake, that would be his right.  
  
They went to the check-out, and Matt remembered his rich owners who had him be the one to speak to sales assistants and check out things for them because it was beneath them, and held his chin high as he checked out the DVDs.   
  
"That'll be sixty-eighty nine," the cashier said, and for one disorienting moment Matt thought he meant six hundred and eighty-nine dollars, because that was closer to the amounts Matt was used to things costing. He hadn't actually done the checking-out in a long time.  
  
Matt handed the card, and the cashier swiped it, and handed him the receipt, not having him sign it. Most debit cards didn't require that nowadays, anyway--some still did, but for every receipt that had to be signed, another owner couldn't have their slave go on errands and buy things for them. Slaves couldn't sign anything.  
  
Matt smiled, wished them a good day and left off the address, biting his tongue bloody, and walked over to Bee and Candace.   
  
"Alright, three more stores," Anna said wearily, coming after them with her own bags. "Sweets Emporium, Sears, and then that new yarn shop."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also comes from Ada Hoffman's "Parable of the Supervillain".


	95. look at the skill and spirit with which I rise from that which resembles the grave but isn’t

Foggy got to therapy, and immediately put down his bag and began to pace back and forth.  
  
"I don't know how to live in this world," he began.  
  
Miriam studied him. Her braids were wrapped around her head like a crown, and her eyes seemed full of calm patience. It was only marginally soothing.  
  
"I don't--I had to take Matt to this _fucking_ government thing, and I had to--I had to hold his hand while they--when they were raping him, I had to hold his hand and, and, I wanted to fucking kill everyone, I want to burn the whole world to fucking ashes and sit on top of the Empire State Building and roast marshmallows with him, I want everything to just--stop--"  
  
Foggy stopped talking, half-horrified at himself, and half too furious to speak coherently.  
  
"I don't know how to go on living in a world that is so fundamentally evil," he said. "I don't understand how I haven't noticed it before."  
  
"It can be very easy for us to not see what we find distressing," Miriam said calmly. "It's a normal thing, for people to not notice what they find to shake their worldview so badly."  
  
Foggy snorted. "I don't--I guess it's normal, but how could I--how could I not have _known_?"  
  
He sat down hard on the couch. "I feel like every time I think I've understood how fucking--horrific--everyone is, I get slapped in the face with some new piece of pure, utter--dehumanizing evil--and then I realize that no, I didn't understand, I can't understand how bad the world really is. I can't get it. And I have to get it. I can't just--I can't keep getting caught off-guard like this, I have to be strong and, and I have to be ready for everything. I have to be able to actually fucking do my fucking job as a friend and be there for Matt, I have to protect him--"  
  
And that was veering into territory that felt weirdly patronizing. He stopped talking for a minute.  
  
Miriam said gently, "Is there anything you think you can focus on? Specific, concrete goals?"  
  
"I--" Foggy swallowed and closed his eyes and thought. "I want--no, shit--I owe it to him--I _need_ to get Matt a good Christmas present or ten. I need to stop fucking up and freaking him out. And I need to figure out something--some way to fight back. Some way to help that kid."  
  
"That kid?" she questioned gently.  
  
"There was--in the waiting room, there was this kid--and he was so little, he was, maybe he was three, or five, I don't know, he was just a fucking kid, and his mother had him a collar and she was--it was some demented fucking punishment, and--and I couldn't help him, I had to walk away from him--"  
  
Foggy put a hand up to his mouth and resisted the urge to vomit. He couldn't stop seeing Matt's face as they raped him, their blue gloves against his dick, the relief on his face because at least it was over.  
  
"Matt looked relieved when they finished the--the 'semen sample', when they were-- he looked happy that it was over--" and then Foggy rushed to the trash can and threw up the leftover pizza.  
  
It smelled disgusting, and he gagged and kept vomiting for a few more minutes, and then he staggered backwards.  
  
Miriam didn't look disgusted. She held out a pack of gum, and a water bottle, the tiny kind.  
  
Foggy washed out his mouth as best he could, and spat it into the trash can. "I hate them," he said suddenly. "I fucking hate all of them. I hate every single person in this fucking world who has ever done this. I hate the fact that I can't free Matt," and his voice cracked. "I hate myself for hurting him, and I keep fucking doing it. I can't seem to get it right."  
  
"Foggy," Miriam said very gently, "I'd like to speak for a little while now."  
  
Foggy nodded and chewed the gum, trying to get the taste of stomach acid out of his mouth.  
  
"First of all, it's healthy that you're saying these things," she began. "Second of all, you mentioned Christmas presents as a concrete way to effect positive change in your life. You also mentioned possible political activism?"  
  
Foggy nodded, watching her. She put her fingers against her lips, and then spoke again, quietly. "I need to inform you that as a mandated reporter, it is my job to report any violations of laws regarding the movements of slaves to the Bureau or any other law enforcement agency."  
  
Foggy went cold. "What?" he said.  
  
Miriam re-explained. "If any of my patients were to become involved with any anti-slavery terrorist organizations, or else traffick slaves, I would be obligated to report, in that instance."  
  
Foggy stared at her, this woman who was helping him, who he'd thought was on his side. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" he asked before he could help himself.  
  
She didn't look offended. "I would also be mandated to report if I had evidence of you committing sex crimes," she explained. "Specifically, sexual assault."  
  
Foggy looked at her, sickened again, because she'd just said-- but she hadn't reported him for raping Matt--  
  
Because nobody thought it was rape. Not Matt, not Miriam, not anyone else. Nobody in the entire fucking world thought it was rape. Foggy was alone in his own personal nightmare.  
  
The thought was self-centered enough to yank him out of his reverie. No, no, this wasn't his nightmare. He wasn't the one suffering the most, and it wasn't a nightmare. He couldn't very well wake up.  
  
Miriam was moving something around. "I have here a collection of items I like to use with my patients, sometimes," she said, putting a box in front of him.  
  
Foggy looked inside the box. There were stones, and a blanket, and things that he didn't know any words for.  
  
"What are--"  
  
"They're called stim toys," Miriam explained. "And the stones are worry stones; you can hold them, and wear them down slowly, after decades."  
  
Foggy looked inside them, feeling faintly like a crazy person, or the only sane person on the planet, and picked up the blanket--  
  
Only to find it heavy. Extremely heavy. Like a dentist's vest, the kind that was lined with lead for x-rays.  
  
"Huh," he said. "What--why is that weighted? Does it have--those are beads," he said absently.  
  
"Yes," Miriam explained. "It's a weighted blanket. Some of my patients with anxiety, especially, like to use them, and find it comforting."  
  
Matt loved blankets. Foggy suddenly had a beautiful idea, and pulled out his phone to remind himself to do it as soon as possible.  
  
\--  
  
After he got back from the appointment with Miriam--she'd had him write down a list of things that were both physically possible and would make him feel a little less despairing of the world, possibly--Foggy got back to find the house empty, apart from Dad.  
  
There was a note in Anna's handwriting on the back of the door. _We went shopping. Don't worry._  
  
Well, that was completely impossible, but Foggy sighed and decided to do it anyway. "Hey, Dad," he said, and went to him in the living room.  
  
"Hey, Foggy-bear," Dad said, and put an arm around him as Foggy fished out his project--baby hats, for the hospital's maternity ward--and started to crochet. Hat patterns were startlingly easy, once you realized they were all variations on either making the brim and then going up, or making a ruffled circle and then going down.  
  
Foggy tch'd at the nickname irritably, but didn't argue. He felt like he had no emotions left in him, not after throwing them up into a trash can.  
  
"Hey," Dad said after a minute. "So you're, uh, very taken with Matt."  
  
Foggy stared at him. His dad's face looked sad and guilty, the way he did whenever he talked about Rosalind, full of spilled milk. "Yeah?"  
  
"Have you thought about what the long-term plans will be?"  
  
Foggy stared at him harder. "Matt is not a dog that I need to put in my will," he said mildly, ignoring the fact that he'd had to designate Anna as Matt's hypothetical just-in-case owner. That was just a legal thing. Nothing was going to happen to him.  
  
"I--son," and Dad sighed and scrubbed his other hand over his face. "Foggy, I love you, and I think Matt's a fine kid."  
  
Foggy glared at him.  
  
"But, and don't look at me like that, but he's--do you understand what you're doing, all this, all this commitment?"  
  
Foggy lifted his chin. "You know," he said icily, channeling Rosalind firing an intern, channeling Matt standing up to her. "Someone told me once that everything you say before the 'but' is actually just fluff to soften the blow."  
  
"Son--goddamnit--" and Dad looked old, old as Gandalf or the old man Matt Murdock had saved that one day, years ago, "Foggy, I just--look, what if he's as twitchy as he is forever? Are you prepared to do so much, as much as you're doing, for the rest of your life?"  
  
Foggy almost laughed. It wasn't a real question. "Yes."  
  
"Don't just toss that out there like it's nothing," Dad snapped.  
  
Foggy looked at him, and thought about Matt, about going to therapy and feeling frayed and vomiting, about the way sometimes he sympathized with Sisyphus, about the way he was so fucking glad right there and then that Matt was somewhere else.  
  
And then he thought about kissing Matt's neck, about bringing him soup. About the countless ways Matt took care of Foggy, the perfect coffee before even he knew he wanted it, the standing up to Rosalind, to that utter monster Winter. Matt slow-blinking at him so Foggy could get through the horrific obedience test. About Matt tapping on the window, grinning and silly and proud.  
  
Whatever kind of horrific dystopia Foggy lived in, whatever kind of world he was forced to exist in, he wasn't about to do it without Matt.  
  
He said, calm and certain, seeing the infinite mountain full of jagged edges and nasty, crumbling cliffs, and deciding to climb it anyway, "Yes."  
  
Dad sighed. "Why, Foggy?"  
  
"I love him."  
  
"You're ready to always be there for him for the rest of your life," Dad said, eyes narrowed. "Even if he's always this quiet little wrecked kid?"  
  
"Matt is not broken," Foggy said, feeling the truth in the words. Matt wasn't broken. Matt was crazy, Matt was hurt, Matt was scarred. Matt was walking wounded.  
  
But he wasn't broken. People didn't break; objects broke. People got hurt, and Matt was hurt, horrifically so, more than Foggy knew people could get hurt.  
  
So fucking what?  
  
"And even if he's never--" Foggy made a vague gesture. "Whatever it is that you think he 'should' be--" and now that he was making the argument, he could understand what Anna had meant, he could articulate it now he had an opponent, "I don't fucking care. I love Matt. He's fine just as he is. He's more than fine, actually. He's amazing. He's smart, he's smarter than me, he's funny, he's compassionate. I love him. I don't care if he never loves me back, or if he's always fucked up and crazy. I don't care. Nobody gets to hurt him. Not me, and not anyone else, not as long as I'm alive. I love Matt."  
  
Dad studied him, and then leaned back. "The world's not gonna make it easy for you," he warned him. "Your mother explained it to me. You can't just free him."  
  
"I love him," Foggy explained. The words were so small, minuscule, atoms in the vastness of his love for Matt, in the promise. "If the world wants to try to fuck him over any more, they can do it over my cold fucking corpse."  
  
Dad looked at him and sighed heavily. "You're just like your mother."  
  
"Anna said that?"  
  
"I meant Rose," Dad said, looking nostalgic. "She's just the same. She doesn't give a fuck about what the world wants."  
  
"She left you, and me," Foggy pointed out, unable to see the connection. "No, actually, didn't she literally kick you out of her house, with me?"  
  
Dad snorted. "Yes. But--jeez, Foggy, how can I even explain? It's the determination. Anna's determined, but she's not like you. She told me our marriage vows were conditional.  
  
"Not Rose. You're just like her," he said, sounding sad. "She's a bulldog, too, never lets anything go once she's decided to do it."  
  
Foggy looked at him, judging him a little bit.  
  
Dad rolled his eyes. "I fell in love with her for a reason, Foggy," he said.  
  
"Yeah, that reason is called heroin," Foggy pointed out.  
  
"Well, it helped," Dad muttered, and they both laughed a little.  
  
"But, seriously, no, don't do that again," Foggy said, grimacing. "She's--fuck her. She raped Matt. She can go die in a fucking fire."  
  
"Son--it's not--good lord," Dad sighed. "You're being unfair to her. She doesn't live in whatever kind of--I don't even know, college student liberal culture you think we should--"  
  
"Dad--" Foggy started, and stopped. "Dad, shut up. I can't listen to you tell me I should be nicer to a woman who raped the person I'm in love with. No. Just...no."  
  
Dad looked mutinous. "Anyway," he said. "I'd better be getting back to the shop," he said. Foggy knew it was a polite lie.  
  
"See you later," Foggy said, and went back to his crochet in silence. He felt better now that he'd said those two things out loud: that he didn't know how to live in this evil world, and that he loved Matt, scars included. It felt truer now that he'd said it. It sounded like his own real voice.  
  
Then he remembered what to buy Matt, and rushed off to go order it, face split with excitement.

\--

Anna dropped Matt off at Foggy's apartment, promising Matt to let him know she'd done it.  
  
Matt walked up inside, put the Christmas presents for Foggy carefully under the small stack of microfleece blankets, pulled a cushion off the couch, and curled up on it on the floor next to his bed, shivering.  
  
He'd done it. He'd pretended, in public, to be a free person. He'd _lied_ to free people, casually committed fraud, and not like a lie to an owner that they asked you to tell them, not like how he'd lied to Foggy so long ago. He'd actually, honest-to-goodness lied about his legal status.  
  
Matt hastily unwound the scarf and realized he'd accidentally taken it, and made a mental note to give it back to Anna when he next was there.  
  
His neck felt so much better now that it wasn't mummified. He breathed in and out, deep and slow, scared still. He felt like any moment now the police, or Foggy, or someone else, would come in and drag him away to be beaten or put in a sensory deprivation tank or whip him for pretending to be free. It felt as if he was on a knife's edge and being cut, slowly, bleeding into the sheets.  
  
Of course, he could always claim that Foggy had told him to put on the scarf over his collar, and it wasn't illegal, not strictly. But that was also a lie. It had been of his volition. It was his fault, his decision, his own idea. It felt horrifically _wrong_ to Matt to cover it up. Even for his owner's sake, his owner's convenience, it still felt like Matt had somehow crossed a line and gone too far.  
  
He lay there and shivered, trying to get himself under control. He'd done well. It had been a scary, difficult task, asking some of the assistants at the yarn shop for help in picking out the right one, but he'd done it, and done it right.  
  
Matt breathed in and out, trying to soothe himself like he was soothed when he was trained to do frightening things for owners. _Shh, shh, it's okay, you did it right, you were good, you're still being good. You deserve a treat for that. Go get something that tastes good and put on some music, you deserve a treat for this,_ he thought at himself.  
  
It was difficult to move, his limbs felt wrong, but he got up, and got himself tea, fingers trembling. He brought it back to the bedroom and curled up on the cushion again, kneeling, and put on some quiet Chopin piano from his laptop, and blanked his mind of any thought that wasn't how good it tasted or how soft the music sounded or how pleasant the weight of his body was, resting on the cushion, on his knees where it was safer.  
  
Matt floated on the sensation, letting himself breathe out the fear, and braced himself for having to figure out tonight if it had been just a dream, or if Foggy really had used him.  
  
\--  
  
When Foggy came back later that night--if Matt wanted space, he'd give Matt space--he found Matt lying on his bed, looking nervous.  
  
"Hey," Foggy said.  
  
Matt twisted so that his face was in front of Foggy. His back was still tight with tension, as far as Foggy could tell.  
  
"Hey," he said again, gentler, sitting down on his bed, tossing his boots in his closet and flopping down. "What's up?"  
  
Matt hesitated, and then said quietly, "A long time ago, when I was owned by a woman named Sharon, one of the overseers wanted to fuck me."  
  
Foggy didn't know what this was leading into. He made a quiet noise to show he was listening.  
  
"He tried to do it the ordinary way, at first," Matt said, curling into a ball. "Ordering me to bend over, things like that. But I didn't let him--I always had something else I couldn't delay doing for our mistress. And he didn't stop trying for quite a while. Once, when I had been sent to fetch her a sandwich--our mistress, Mistress Sharon--he tried to order me to suck him off."  
  
Foggy wanted to kill this man. "Fuck him," he offered. Matt smiled briefly.  
  
"He wouldn't let me leave the kitchen--and I wasn't sure if it would have been acceptable to force my way out--for long enough that Mistress Sharon ended up coming down," Matt said, thoughtfully. "And she was quite irritated with him, but she allowed both of us to make arguments, to make our cases."  
  
Good fucking Jesus. "Wow," Foggy said, unable to make any words come out. Christ. He tried to imagine listening to someone argue why he was allowed to rape him, and he couldn't.  
  
Matt smiled again, and then it passed. "His argument was that since it didn't involve my own nakedness, or any part of my body besides my mouth, that it wouldn't have been sex, and so he didn't need to ask her for prior permission, like he did when he wanted sex from her other slaves."  
  
Foggy blinked.  
  
Matt was completely, absolutely silent, and Foggy looked closer at him. He looked like he was expecting Foggy to say something, or waiting for it, or terrified of it.  
  
Well, okay. "That's a bullshit argument," Foggy said, not sure what would help Matt. "Completely bullshit. Blowjobs are definitely, inarguably sex. Anything with one person's dick--or vagina--or nipples--or ass, I guess--or any kind of genitals or anything is sex. No matter what teenagers in Texas think. Or asshole rapists like that."  
  
Matt smiled and his whole body uncurled and relaxed. "I argued that since I was her property and not his, it was up to her what was done with me, including anything from whether I breathed or choked, if I lived or died, and thus he shouldn't presume to order me as if I were his property.  
  
"And Mistress Sharon had never actually given the overseer the explicit privilege of having authority over her _bed_ slaves--me and the pet--and therefore there was absolutely no reason he should have thought himself entitled enough to presume to use me for sex without asking first. And that he was lying, he hadn't just wanted to use my mouth."  
  
Foggy winced, but then again, this was just like Matt to argue that. "Did it work?"  
  
"She was very pleased by my recognition of her rights," Matt said, face unworried now. "And very displeased with the overseer. She investigated, and found he'd been ordering around half of her other slaves to have sex with him, or with each other, without consulting her first. Since sex wasn't any of their duties, and he never asked her for permission, she was extremely angry. She had him demoted to dishwasher, and then when he turned out to be incompetent at that, she had him put down. She let me be the one to give the shot," and Matt grinned at that, wide and pleased with himself.  
  
On the one hand, the idea of Matt killing anyone was disturbing.  
  
On the other hand, Foggy was starting to feel like anyone who raped Matt, or tried, or raped anyone, for that matter, should get what was coming to them, and if that was death, well. They deserved it. "Good. I'm glad he's dead," Foggy said, and then he moved to get his laptop.  
  
He glanced over after he settled down again, and Matt looked calm and as relaxed and happy as he got. So Foggy let him be, and kept half an eye out, just in case Matt wanted to share anything else. But he didn't.  
  
\--  
  
Matt _knew_ that this had been the right tactic. Foggy hated Matt's other owners, even the ones who had been nice, and he knew that disguising it as just a story would make sure that he could suss out the truth.  
  
It had just been a weird, awful dream. He didn't have to worry. Foggy had been entirely sincere in his baffled contempt of the overseer's argument. He thought that blowjobs were sex, and so he hadn't used Matt and said it wasn't really sex.  
  
Matt smiled, made sure to send an 'all clear' message to Bee, and switched back to the creepy podcast. The narrator had filed out the begging forms to be allowed to eat with the beautiful scientist with the beautiful hair, and was describing how he'd picked out his favorite glittery collar with his best tunic and furry pants for the occasion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also comes from Anne Boyer's "what resembles the grave but isn’t".


	96. you run on gasoline

Bee waited until one in the morning to sneak out and go to Foggy's place. 

It was odd, to not have it be their living place either, anymore, but it had hardly been _theirs_ in the first place. Forcing themselves out of the tiny room they were half-trapped and half-ensconced in was difficult, made them tremble, but they took out the knife from under their pillow, and stashed it in a sweatshirt pocket next to the tablet, and felt better that way.

They got even more afraid once they were out of the Nelsons' house, outside and alone in the dark, but nobody was around. They didn't encounter one person, and they hunched over, trying to hide their collar, and then remembered that they weren't wearing one anymore.

It felt...well, good, but also very, very weird. They couldn't remember a time before they wore a collar; their first memories of the collars were having the plastic ones cleaned under in the showers in the center. Then there were the heavy metal collars after they--

After they didn't have a tongue. Or teeth. And then there was the shock collars when the center got a donor who sent them, and then there was being bought by the cunts, and then there was the other collars, metal and heavy and itching at their skin.

They almost missed the nice fabric collar Foggy had gotten them, and the braided leather ones. Leather was so much better than metal, or at least iron or steel. And the fabric ones were so soft, it had almost felt nice to have them put on.

Bee shook themselves out of it. They were free now, and they weren't supposed to miss things about being a slave, but in a way, they did. They didn't know how to be a free person, what to do, when they should eat or sleep or get up or sit down or go do the dishes or study.

It was late, and they walked quickly, hood over their hair because it was greasy and matted and disgusting. They couldn't make themselves shower enough, or get out of bed most days, except late in the day, to sneak out and get food. They knew they didn't need to, not anymore, but they still couldn't quite bring themselves to be around anyone other than Matt, because they felt so fucking stupidly afraid and ashamed.

When they'd been a slave, they'd shoved back at the shame, fought it, because back then, it had been an insult to them. But now they were free, and doing a terrible job of it, hiding away from everyone and doing almost nothing to enjoy their freedom, and it was shameful. Matt was the only one they could stand to be around, because what Summer had said was just on the nail: he couldn't look at them.

They didn't want to be looked at ever again.

They made it to the apartment, and knocked quietly, hoping that with Foggy's weird sleeping disorder and Matt's ability to sleep through screams, that it would work out just right--

And Foggy was the one to open the door, blinking at the faint light and rubbing an eye.

"Can I have a word with you? Downstairs?" They made sure the tablet's voice was very quiet.

Foggy blinked again, and said, "Uh, sure, I mean, it's late--"

"Matt shouldn't listen in on this conversation," they amped the volume up to a stage-whisper, and Foggy looked more wary, but nodded and followed them down.

They kept a hand inside their pocket, holding the knife's handle. It felt like a security blanket, like the little plain blankets they had been given in pre-conditioning. They had it all the time now, under the pillow or next to them. They could go out without it if Matt was there; he was a bodyguard-trained slave, and in shape, and perfectly willing to use violence if anything happened.

Their blankets were all taken away once they turned five, to be washed and given to the next batch of baby slaves. Theirs had been yellow, and soft, and so old and ragged that it had been burnt instead.

Bee walked them downstairs, and sat in the stairwell, looking hard at Foggy Nelson, thinking.

He'd helped them reshape their name into something that could pass for a normal free person's name. He'd never touched them. He'd given them food, and water, and a couch to sleep on, and warm clothes. He'd never hit them, or punished them, or gotten angry at them. He'd defended them, and freed them.

They would be sorry if they had to hurt him to help Matt.

They typed quietly for a second, and then, "You haven't fucked Matt, have you?"

They watched his face tensely, fist tight on the knife. With Matt still asleep upstairs, they could take Foggy, probably. They were still skinny and small and had no training in fighting, but they were determined to save the only real friend they had in the world.

Foggy went pale. "No," he said, "No, I would never--no, no. Shit. Did he--is he okay?"

Well, that seemed sincere enough, but just to check. "You haven't even used his mouth? I mean, his lips are pretty," and Foggy looked angry at the second sentence. Good.

"What the fuck? No. Fucking no. I'm trying to not be a dick to Matt. I'm not going to fucking rape him," Foggy hissed.

They smiled and relaxed. That was vehement. Bee wasn't Matt, who could read anyone with terrifying accuracy--anyone but Foggy, anyway--but they knew a lie when they saw one, and that wasn't a lie.

"Good," they typed. "Because you're not allowed to hurt Matt." Their heart pounded in their chest with terror at telling a free person what they weren't allowed to do, but it felt like freedom, like breathing in air with an uncovered neck. Like walking out of the cunts' house on their own two feet.

Now they didn't have to stab Foggy's neck, slide out the knife. It had been a stupid idea anyway; they didn't think they could  _really_ do it.

"Yeah," Foggy said quietly, seriously. "I know."

They looked at him, and thought about the way he looked at Matt, and then sighed. Oh, hell. "You love him, don't you," and the tablet's voice didn't sound as accusing as they wanted it to come out.

"Yeah," Foggy said softly, face turning cherishing. "I love Matt."

"Don't tell him. Or. Don't tell him like that."

"Why not?" he asked, looking confused.

They tried to figure out how to put it into words. Free people were idiots when it came to slaves.

"Owners who love slaves hurt them even more than free people who love each other hurt each other," they finally arrived on. "And if an owner loves you, you have to love them back."

"Oh," Foggy said. "Fuck that. Matt can feel however he feels."

They looked at him--really _looked_ at him--and laughed silently. Foggy Nelson was a completely bizarre, near-miraculous person.

"Only you would care that much," they eventually had the tablet say.

"You love Matt, too," he pointed out.

They flinched. "No." They didn't even want to imagine having to kiss Matt, or fuck him, like owners made slaves do sometimes. No. Matt existed apart from those grotesque little performances.

"I don't mean--no, I mean like, as a friend. Platonically. As a friend. Like Harry and Hermione."

Who was that? They must have looked as baffled as they felt, because Foggy hastily clarified, "I--they're characters in the _Harry Potter_ series, they're friends but not ever romantically involved, some people ship them and they're wrong, anyway--you never read _Harry Potter_?"

They stared at him blankly. Sometimes Foggy could be really, really clueless. "I read things for a degree. I didn't have books for fun."

"And you probably never got the chance to read it," Foggy muttered to himself, and facepalmed. "God. Sorry. Do you want to borrow mine?"

"Why?" Bee asked, finally too confused by all this charity. "Why are you doing so much for me? You and your parents. I'm not contributing anything back. I'm just eating food and hiding in a room and taking up space."

"Okay, first of all, people don't have to do _anything_ to 'earn', like, a room and food," Foggy said. "And also, like, because we can? Because we can help you. Because you don't have any other place to go right now. Uncle Thomas is getting you an apartment as soon as he can find one, but like--okay, as much as my parents are also kind of politically uninvolved, we can't just--we would never not do something for someone, if we can. That's some shit you learn in kindergarten, you know? If you can help someone, you should."

They looked at him, and felt the strangest urge to cry. "I don't know. I didn't go to kindergarten."

An awkward silence fell upon the deep.

"Yeah," Foggy said quietly. "And that makes me want to kill people."

"Why--we're not even friends. I barely know anything about you."

Foggy shrugged. "You're Matt's friend. Even if you and I hated each other, I'd still try to be nice to you. I can't stand most of Candace's friends and I still have to be civil with them."

They turned and looked at the dank stairwell, clutching the knife. They understood now, viscerally, why Matt seemed to be perpetually confused about Foggy Nelson. He was the antithesis of owners, but he was an owner. He was a paradoxical person.

"Well, don't leave Matt alone again," they typed out, refocusing. "He told me he couldn't talk to me because he didn't deserve it, because he made you upset."

"Oh, jesus," Foggy swore, putting his head in his hands. "Oh, _Matt_ ," he said softly. "I didn't mean to--I didn't mean _that_ ," he said, turning to Bee, eyes wide. "I was pissed and I left so I didn't--I dunno, so I wouldn't make it worse, or yell at him."

"I think he'd be fine with you hitting him more than leaving him," they said.

"I'm not going to fucking hit him!" Foggy yelled, and it echoed in the stairwell, loud. They shrank back on old reflexes, ground into their marrows. He stopped.

"Sorry," he said. "Sorry, I didn't--shit. I just. I don't want to yell at Matt. Or push him too hard. But I can't--I can't not ever be angry at the bullshit he spews about him not being a person, or deserving all that horrible shit anyone's ever done to him. It makes me so angry. I can't--"

They studied him. Foggy was really, really determined.

"If you told him not to say those things, he wouldn't."

"Yeah, but that would _also_ be being a controlling asshole," Foggy said. "Ugh. I'll ask Miriam. She has good advice sometimes."

They didn't know how Miriam was. They looked at Foggy Nelson, still in his pajamas, starting to shiver, and stood up.

"Matt likes it when you let him sleep in your bed," they said. It wasn't a secret. They would keep the actual secrets, still. They weren't a snitch.

"Yeah," Foggy said, and stood up too.

"See you another time," they told him.

"Wait--"

They turned back around.

"Get Matt something for Christmas," Foggy said. "I want to make it perfect for him."

Good lord. He sounded like Matt when he was talking about doing something for Foggy. "Sure," they said, and left.

As they walked back through the neighborhoods, shivering through the sweatshirt, glad they hadn't had to the use the knife, they thought about what to get Matt, and how to deal with Foggy.

They weren't friends with him, and they didn't trust him, not all the way. He was an owner, which was a little like being an alligator. You couldn't trust them no matter how nice they were. But he'd freed them, and that meant they had red in their ledger. They knew how relationships worked.

And since Foggy loved Matt so goddamn much, so inexplicably, they might be able to pay off their debt by getting Matt something, provided it was beyond perfect for him.

Something occurred to them, and a small smile twisted their face, and they hurried back to the Nelsons', got into the room and the corner of the closet they'd been hiding in irregularly, and began to look up the store they were thinking of. Something for Matt that they'd wanted since they were small and saw one of the director's kids have it at the office when they were called in to--

To be displayed. Inspected. Fingers inside of them--

They shivered a little, and focused. They'd have to get the knife for him somewhere else, and find a way to hide it inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also comes from Halsey's "Gasoline".


	97. permit yourself anger, and permit me mine

The next morning, when Foggy got up to find Matt rolling what looked like dough around on the counter, doing something to it that involved stretching it out and then bunching it back together-- _kneading_ , he remembered, that's what it's called, Anna does that with bread--and then he sat down at the table and watched for a minute, and then cleared his throat.  
  
Matt tilted his head and something in his shoulders tightened minutely.  
  
"Hey, Matt, so remember the time I sort of, uh, stormed off and then came back later with donuts?"  
  
Matt nodded. "Yes, Foggy," he said, kneading the dough harder.  
  
"Uh, well, okay, uh--I meant--I didn't mean--" he sighed. Why was it so hard to talk to Matt sometimes? Why couldn't they just _communicate_?  
  
 _Because he's been systematically fucked up, and it's not his fucking fault_ , Foggy thought ruthlessly at himself.  
  
"If I do that, what I'm trying to do--if I leave--it's not make you feel worse," he articulated. "It's so that I don't--look, Matt, if I was having an argument with Candace, like that, I might end up snapping at her, or we'd be fighting, or like, even scream. We had a lot of screaming fights in high school. But, as someone who at least _tries_ to be a mature adult, I don't really think it solves problems, and also I don't--I don't actually want to fight with you, that would not be...that would not be okay."  
  
The word Foggy wanted to say was _fair_ , but something about that felt patronizing. He'd have to ask Miriam about this weird conflict he kept seeing, where Matt both clearly wasn't independent but wasn't helpless, either.  
  
Matt looked like someone who spoke English trying very hard to understand Dutch, or some of the freshman in college when they took their very first Women's Studies class and saw phrases like 'deconstruct the hyper-feminizing of queerness, with a Focaultian approach'.   
  
"If you want to express your frustrations with me, Foggy, that's your right," Matt eventually said, soft and coaxing. "I wouldn't mind it if you wanted to use me to release tension."  
  
"Matt--" Foggy sighed and buried his face in his hands. "Matt, I--no. No. You're a person, I won't--fucking jesus. It is not okay to hit people, or, or yell at them, just because you're pissed at them, okay? I believe that. Got it?"  
  
"Yes, Foggy," he said, still kneading, looking mildly confused.  
  
"I--and if I do do that, walk out so I don't escalate anything by accident, you can do whatever, okay? Whether or not you deserve basic rights as a person has nothing to do with me, or whether I'm pissed at you or not, okay?"  
  
Matt had the tiniest twitch of irritation, but nodded. "Understood, Foggy," he said.  
  
Foggy sighed but didn't say anything else, even though Matt clearly _didn't_ understand. Fuck.  
  
\--  
  
At the next session with Miriam, he started off by sitting down and saying heavily, "How do you help someone understand that they're a person?"  
  
Miriam tilted her head curiously. "I assume you're referring to Matt?" she asked lightly.   
  
"Yeah," Foggy said.   
  
"Well, since he's your slave, it should be as simple as telling him what you think, and ordering him to stop disagreeing with you," she said, perfectly calmly.

"Oh, _fuck you_!" Foggy snapped, something twanging hard in his chest. "Fuck you and fuck this whole fucking world, I am so _done_ with people talking about Matt like that!"  
  
He stood up and grabbed his bag to go, snarling out, "Fucking people keep expecting me to hurt him, to just, to treat him like shit, fuck you and fuck everyone else--"  
  
And then he remembered that he was going to ask her about how Matt's both weirdly helpless and yet absolutely not, and stops.  
  
Fuck. How long would it take him to find _another_ therapist, even one that was marginally good? How would Anna react if Foggy stormed out and had to tell her he'd told her colleague to fuck off and quit therapy because of one stupid remark?  
  
He sighed, and sat down again, slower this time. He looked at Miriam, who didn't look angry or offended.  
  
"I don't--okay, that was a little bit rude, but--fuck that. I'm not treating Matt like that. I refuse."  
  
Miriam looked at him, eyes dark, and then nodded. "I see. Well, maybe some other tactics would help. You've mentioned that Matt believes that he's not a person?"  
  
Foggy blew out a breath and nodded. "He really thinks that. It's--it's not just something he says, or repeats. He thinks it, wholeheartedly," his voice cracked at the end with pain for Matt, remembering especially Matt's argument at the courthouse. Jesus.  
  
"Well, you want him to form a different understanding of himself, and you're not willing to order him to," Miriam said. "Is my understanding correct, then?"  
  
Foggy said, "Yeah. I mean, I don't--I don't want him to say it, or think it, just because I said so, that's--that's some cruel, stupid bullshit, but I want him to understand that he _is_ a person and just--and stand up for himself, and, and let himself just have things without worrying about them, because he deserves them. I don't--I'm afraid that I'm hurting him, or I'm going to hurt him, and he'll just _let me_."  
  
Miriam nodded, and wrote something down. "It's normal for people whose loved ones have low self-esteem to feel frustrated and angry on their behalf," she said gently.   
  
"And it's good to have a space to vent those feelings without causing the loved one further distress. It might help you in addition, with that, if you wanted to write down your feelings. Some of my clients write letters to their spouses, or children, or friends, and then burn them. Does that sound like something you want to try?"  
  
"Maybe," Foggy said. "That might--that might help, because I know I can't push him too hard. But maybe if I write it--yeah, and that way I won't do it by accident."  
  
Miriam nodded. "Now, my advice for engaging with it in the moment, when Matt says something that indicates this view of himself, is to do what's called the broken record technique.  
  
"It's something that helps a lot of my clients push back on other people's negative speech or even boundary-pushing attempts without engaging with their beliefs or getting exhausted. Essentially, you form a sentence to say, and say it whenever the situation comes up.   
  
"One of my clients responds, for example, to her mother's attempts to see my client's children alone is 'this is the rules that I have set with regards to my children, and if you can't follow them, you can't be their grandmother at all'. What do you think could be a useful phrase for dealing with Matt's self-conception?"  
  
Foggy thought about it. He didn't want to force Matt into believing something different just because he did, but he couldn't just let that shit stand. "Maybe, uh, I dunno, something like--like maybe, _it's fine to disagree with me, but I think you're a person?_ "  
  
That sounded good. Miriam nodded. "Now, the next time you're faced with Matt's belief of himself, it might help to just try saying that instead of doing what you call 'pushing'--and could you elaborate on what you mean by that?"  
  
"Yeah, sure. I mean like--I keep trying to show him the reasons for it, or persuade him to see the truth, or I guess just, I dunno, push back on that shit. Because it is _such_ fucking bullshit, everyone is a person, that's some basic shit, I just," and Foggy made himself take a deep breath.   
  
"That reminds me of the other thing I was gonna ask you," he said quietly. "I--okay, there's this thing going on, and I don't know if I'm understanding it right. It's--okay, sometimes Matt seems just...helpless, and I guess--um--vulnerable is what I mean, Matt seems just _vulnerable_ , like I could do whatever I wanted to him, and it scares the hell out of me.   
  
"But then, Anna told me, she reminded me really, that I shouldn't be condescending to Matt, and I know that Matt's not actually helpless, he's--did I tell you about the time Rosalind came to my apartment and Matt verbally kicked her ass out of there?"  
  
Miriam looked curious. "No, I don't believe you have."  
  
"Well, okay, I did tell you how Rosalind is kind of an evil bitch, right?"  
  
Miriam looked amused. "You've mentioned."  
  
"Yeah, I'll tell you more about her later. Anyway, um, so Rosalind came over to the apartment and Matt just--every time she said something horrible, like she does, Matt...what's the word for it in sword fights where someone blocks the other person's sword?"  
  
Miriam frowned. "Do you mean 'to parry'?"  
  
"Yeah, that's it. Matt _parried_ , Matt fought her on my behalf, like those graceful Southern ladies on those shows who smile but then verbally cut a bitch? Yeah, he cut Rosalind up and then he made her leave when I told her to go, he just--Matt's fucking awesome," and Foggy grinned like a loon, he knew, but he loved Matt so much.   
  
"And that time we got almost robbed he fucking _destroyed_ those assholes, he kneecapped one of them, the guy literally fucking doesn't have eyes anymore because Matt jammed his thumbs in the dude's eyes, Matt is not helpless. Except that sometimes it seems like he is! And I don't know how to bring those two facts together!"  
  
Miriam nodded, leaning back. "Have you heard the theory of interdependence?"  
  
Foggy blinked and shook his head. "No," he said. It sounded promising, though.  
  
"Well, my understanding of it is that it was first developed by disability activists in response to US-centric views on 'dependence' and 'independence', and in response to ideas about the relative worth of people depending on their disabilities or lack thereof. And from what I know of it, the theory of interdependence states that people are not really dependent or independent, people are all _inter_ dependent with one another, and that independence is a myth. The example most frequently used is clothes--did you make all your own clothes? Do you grow and hunt and make all your own food? And so on."  
  
Foggy reeled. That--that made a startling amount of sense. He didn't even make his own coffee most of the time anymore, _Matt_ did, and he didn't even have to ask.   
  
"And so, it might be more helpful of a framework to you to think of Matt not as alternately dependent or independent, but as interdependent, like you."  
  
Foggy smiled. That--yes. "Yeah," he said, nodding. That felt like truth, like sunshine after a storm. "Yes, that's--fuck yeah, I'm gonna read up on all of that, that's--oh thank god, I hate it when I think I'm being an ass to him in my head and then I think oh wait, but what if I'm not being patronizing, I'm just telling the truth, and now--" he gestured with one arm, leaning back. "Oh, thank you. Thank you. I mean--yeah. That will help a lot."  
  
Miriam smiled. "I'm glad it's helpful," she said. "Now, we've got about ten minutes left, anything else you want to talk about?"  
  
Foggy had an idea. "Let me tell you about Rosalind," he said, sitting up straighter. "A greatest highlights reel. So that you know at least a little bit about her.  
  
"Okay, so when I was six--fucking _six_ \--and it became apparent that I was going to be a chubby kid forever, Rosalind used one of her afternoons with me to take me to a child nutritionist and buy me a box of protein vegetable bars, alright, and she told me that I should eat one of them instead of having lunch or breakfast, because clearly I wasn't eating right," he started off, all thoughts of Matt diverted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from Margaret Atwood's "Is/Not", here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/75264279436/berceau-isnot-love-is-not-a-profession


	98. I couldn’t explain your genuine smile in the face of disaster

The rest of the time went pretty much uneventfully until Christmas Eve.  
  
Foggy's presents for Matt came packaged up securely, and he discreetly wrapped them at Dad's, and hid them under his bed. Matt seemed mostly fine, and Foggy even started to help Dad around the shop again some days, and more often than he could count, Foggy came back to find Matt humming something to himself or lying on his bed, listening to something, and Foggy would crochet in bed as Matt went out to the gym.  
  
He'd made fifteen hats so far--baby hats went fast, they were so _tiny_ and so, so adorable--and was starting on a baby blanket as well.  
  
On Christmas Eve, Foggy had a total of seventeen baby hats and one baby blanket made, and bundled them up into a bag and went with Anna to go give them to the hospital's maternity ward.  
  
In retrospect, that was a mistake.  
  
Of course, Foggy didn't know about that part until he came back later, opening up the door to Dad's, grinning at Anna and feeling like maybe the world was a beautiful place again, to see Matt lying at the bottom of the stairs with a purple bruise on his face and a tight, terrified expression.  
  
\--  
  
Candace had been flirting even more with Matt as time went on.  
  
He didn't know how to deal with it, except by keeping some physical obstacle between them and pointedly not responding to any of her advances. She didn't touch him, so he couldn't precisely tell Foggy, yet. Matt hadn't realized before the degree to which Foggy found him frustrating to deal with until Foggy had explained why he'd left Matt alone, and Matt had realized with an unpleasant, souring shame that he'd been inconvenient for his owner. His wonderful, lovely, better-than-all-the-rest owner.  
  
So Matt had resolved to just deal with the unpleasant edging fear on his own unless Candace tried to actually touch him, which Foggy had told her not to do. And she didn't, so he couldn't go to Foggy when she went from pointing out his physical attractiveness--which he was well aware of, thank you very much, he'd _read_ his papers, and determining attractive people from distances was something he'd been trained to do--to more and more flirting, more suggestive comments, more double-innuendos, until his stomach clenched with dread every time he went to the Nelsons'.   
  
So when, on Christmas Eve, Matt was cooking down the apple pie mixture of cinnamon, brown sugar, butter, lemon juice, granny smith and golden delicious apples and Caligula came in, he was a little bit frayed at the edges.   
  
Caligula himself was quite alright. He was a cat, which meant he was haughty and fiercely self-determining, and there was something deeply satisfying about listening to him warning-bite the Nelsons for petting him too much, or otherwise touching him how he didn't like.   
  
Matt always liked cats. When he'd been owned by Master Robert, he'd been so jealous of them for being allowed to bite and fight and claw back. They had given him the idea to finally snap and inject the syringes of air into the IV over and over again--  
  
And Matt realized he was shivering and spacing out without meaning to, and anchored himself by thinking about Foggy, and gently offering a hand to pet Caligula, kneeling down.  
  
Caligula purred loudly and buntzed his hand, and Matt scratched behind his ears and under his chin gently and rhythmically, and Caligula purred more and squirmed into his arms.  
  
"(Do you want me to pick you up?)" he asked Caligula softly.  
  
Caligula purred, of course, and Matt decided to take the chance and picked him up, appreciating the way the c-curve of his spine made it possible to hold him like an infant.  
  
Caligula rested his head against Matt's shoulder as Matt resumed stirring the mixture, and then flicked off the flame. More cooking and the apples would disintegrate in baking and turn into a disgusting, fast-food-pie-slice mess.  
  
He then stood there for a minute, appreciating the lovely warm, fat cat in his arms, and heard with a familiar little terror the sound of Candace coming into the kitchen, cooing loudly, "Oh my god, that is the cutest thing I've ever seen!"

\--

"Oh," Candace said, and Matt felt his body lock its muscles and then loosen them, as if readying himself for a run, or sparring. He wanted to run away from her, but he couldn't; she was Foggy's sister, and he was far better trained than that.  
  
"Let me take a pic," she said, and there was the snap of a cellphone camera and probably a flash, given the way Caligula hissed and clawed at Matt's shoulders.  
  
"Oh, hell," Candace said, frowning audibly now. "Let me--come with me, I'll get you some band-aids for that, god, Caligula, you have to stop clawing people, for god's sake," and Matt swallowed but obeyed. Each step felt like walking on hot coals; he had to tread lightly, but the heat rising up made it so _hard_.  
  
He cast his hearing about; Foggy wasn't there.  
  
Foggy wasn't there.  
  
Matt braced himself as he walked, still carrying Caligula, who was back to purring and being petted, gently and carefully, right behind his ears.  
  
"It's so cute, how much he likes you," Candace said, and Matt's skin crawled as he felt her eyes caress it. "Guess he's just got good taste," and Matt felt nauseated by her attention. God, why did she have to do this? Foggy had _told_ her not to touch him, Matt had heard the conversation. And Matt knew Foggy wouldn't be happy about her innuendos, her overstepping, her almost-poaching, but all the same--he'd been a burden to Foggy before and was determined to not be one again.  
  
Still, he held Caligula until they got to the cabinet door, where Caligula was unhappily put down--he protested by clawing Matt more, and Matt murmured a soft little _tut mir Leid_ to him as he put him down--and then he paused at the collection of papery-sounding things and a tube of something that Candace had in her outstretched hand.  
  
"Here," she said.  
  
Matt made his final, fatal mistake of the evening then. He didn't realize it at the time, but in retrospect, this was where he'd truly mistepped.  
  
He took his shirt off to get to the claw wounds properly.  
  
Candace wolf-whistled, and Matt almost involuntarily blushed, and on reflex stopped his flinch. He hastily took the ointment and the band-aids, and started cleaning and bandaging himself as fast as possible, stepping away from her.   
  
She followed him. "Well, damn," she said, and Matt wanted desperately to be anywhere but there. "You're even hotter than I thought you'd be without a shirt."  
  
Matt stepped backwards faster as he went, until he'd somehow maneuvered himself into a doorway above the stairs from the lower level to the medicine cabinet.   
  
And then he smelled mistletoe.  
  
He froze for a second and then yanked his shirt back on so hastily that he dropped the wrappers and the antibiotic in his haste, and tried to edge further away from Candace as she advanced.  
  
"Oh, mistletoe," she said brightly, and then paused. "So I know Foggy kinda told me you were a bit weird, but I think he's overestimated how, I dunno, twitchy you are. You don't seem like damaged goods to me."  
  
Damaged goods--? What? Matt didn't understand; Foggy had never said he was damaged, not within Matt's hearing. The only way that Matt could be said to be damaged at all was his blindness, and Foggy very clearly didn't care about that. Matt had two very small appendectomy scars, but they weren't even visible anymore, they'd been taken care of with cocoa butter.   
  
Did he mean--but no, that couldn't be it, Foggy didn't know about the dream he'd had where he'd woken up with an erection, and besides, Matt still hadn't figured out if that meant he was defective or not.  
  
"I--" he said, and apparently she misunderstood his hesitation as flirtatious shyness.   
  
"So--I mean, I'm not ugly either, and you're just...you're scrumptious," and Matt leaned his head as far away as it went.

"Hey, it's the rules, I don't make them," Candace said, and leaned forward to kiss Matt--  
  
And Matt's blood turned to ice and time seemed to slow down, he thought so frantically fast, and he calculated quickly. He couldn't scream for Foggy because Foggy wasn't there; he couldn't shove her away because she was a free person, and Foggy's beloved sister; he couldn't argue because good slaves didn't argue with free people and even if he told her that that was Foggy's decision, he was _Foggy's_ property, she was already willing to overstep, it wouldn't work; he couldn't run away because she was blocking the way--  
  
Except for the stairs. He could fall down the stairs, and she didn't seem the type to be more aroused by his pain and injury, and even if she laughed at his seeming-clumsiness or his defectiveness, and even if he gave himself a concussion, it would be better than letting her kiss him, betraying Foggy and disobeying his rules and being _used_ and having it be all his fault like the slut he was terrified he was becoming--  
  
And so Matt pivoted slightly, and pushed his ankle just right, and with a sudden perfect calm fell down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also comes from Linda Pastan's "The Cossacks".


	99. I give you my heart, a safe house. I give you promises other than milk, honey, liberty

 

 

 

Foggy rushed over to Matt, all thoughts about how the lights and the hospital and the nurses had made him think there was good things still forgotten.

"Matt," he said a little frantically. "Matt, shit, are you okay?"

Matt's face is bruising, and Foggy didn't know how long he's been lying there. Matt looked terrified and Foggy crouched down to help him up--

And Matt said, so quiet nobody else could hear, "Candace tried to kiss me."

Foggy stopped. He looked at Matt, and then he looked up the stairs.

Candace was standing there, under the mistletoe someone had hung there.

Foggy looked at her. "Candace," he called, a sudden crimson rage in his chest, "Were you trying to kiss Matt?"

He heard Anna behind him gasp and put her head in her hands, and then Candace replied, "Just under the mistletoe, and then he fell down--"

Oh, goddamn _shit_ , Foggy thought to himself.

Matt had been-- Candace had tried--

Fuck, fuck, fuck, and Foggy almost screamed at her right there and then. What was _wrong_ with her? Didn't she _understand_ , this was Matt, he'd told her to knock it off with the touching--

But now, right now, what he needed to do was get Matt the fuck out of there. It was not safe right there for him.

"Okay, let's get out of here," Foggy said to Matt, who got up off the floor and immediately went to go get his coat and shoes.

"What?" Candace called, coming down the stairs. "Does he need to go to the emergency room or something?"

Foggy glanced at Matt, and then looked at her and his vision swam, a tonal sea of reds. "Candace," he said, and his voice came out shaking with rage, "Get the fuck back."

"What--" she stepped closer and Matt flinched--

Foggy got between them. "No," he said, looking at her. "Get the fuck back. You don't get to hurt Matt. Nobody does. Not one more goddamn person," Foggy said, incandescent, burning.

"I don't get it," Candace said, frowning--

And Foggy couldn't. Not right then. Matt yanked on the coat, and grabbed his bag, and Foggy offered his arm.

"Let's get out of here," Foggy said, and Anna said calmly, "I'll drive. It'll be quicker that way."

Thank God for Anna. "Let's get out of here," he said to Matt, who clung on his arm tightly, looking so relieved, Foggy wanted to cry.

"Wait, what--" Candace said, and Foggy slammed the door in her face.

"Fuck," he muttered as he focused on getting Matt into the car. He moved to sit in the back with him; he hoped Matt wasn't going out of it.

"Fuck, Matt," he said, and reached for Matt's hands as Anna got them out of there, starting to drive in necessary silence.

"I'm sorry, Foggy," Matt said, shivering. "I didn't mean to--"

"It is not your fault that apparently my sister has decided to be an asshole," Foggy said firmly. "I was a Women's Studies major in college, remember? I know about sexual harassment. You are the victim here, this is not your fault, I am not mad at you. I am mad as fuck at Candace. I can't believe she did this," and Matt seems to relax a bit.

They get there in record speed and Foggy got out with Matt. "I'll be back later," he told Anna. "I need to make her understand."

"Oh, I'll be doing that too," Anna said, face like thunder. "Don't be mistaken, I'm not happy with her, either."

"Good," Foggy said, and he and Matt went to their apartment, their safe space.

\--

Matt walked with Foggy, shivering under his coat. He was so relieved it had worked, that he hadn't had to be used by Candace, that Foggy wasn't angry with him. Foggy was furious, but he was telling the absolute truth when he said that it wasn't Matt's fault.

Foggy walked him over to Matt's bed, and Matt ripped off his coat and shoes and lay on top of it, shaking violently.

"Hey," Foggy said gently from his own bed where he was taking off his shoes, "You can come here if you'd rather, but it's fine if you want to stay there."

Matt--couldn't tell. He remained in his bed and lay his head against the flat of it, trying to calm down. A part of him still felt panicked, and another part of him felt slimy, slippery, time going in strange ways and Matt being back in Mistress Sharon's bed on the night she bought him from Winter, her on top of him and then her pet and then Matt having to sleep there, still sticky with fluids, realizing that his trainers had been right and sex was punishment, was pain, was something wrong, trying not to heave and be disobedient--

And then he realized what was going on, and reached up to squeeze this throat gently the way he did sometimes, pressing the collar against him. It was fine. It was Foggy's collar and not Mistress Sharon's. Matt wasn't a virgin anymore, and he wasn't anyone else's, he was just Foggy's, and Foggy was a good person to belong to.

"Matt?"

"I'm here, Foggy," Matt murmured, body now drained and exhausted from the fear. His heard throbbed.

"You don't have a concussion?" Foggy asked him, worried.

Matt shook his head. "No," he said. "I'm okay."

"Well, let me get you some ice," Foggy said, and fetched it. Matt closed his eyes and tried to remind himself that everything was okay, he was okay now, he was safe. Foggy was safety. Foggy liked taking care of him. Foggy was endless rewards and no punishments. He was Foggy's, and that meant that his lightning-bolt fear was not appropriate to feel.

"Here," and Matt took it and put it on his face, and the other on his head, maneuvering so he was lying on them, and sighed at the cold.

"Hey," Foggy said quietly after a minute. "I know that you probably just want to be alone--"

"No, please," Matt begged, interrupting and then cringing and shutting his stupid mouth.

"Okay," Foggy said gently. "Okay. I'm here. It's okay. But I need to know how long this has been going on. I need to know how much I need to yell at her for, okay?"

Matt didn't quite comprehend. Words seemed so tiny, and his terror so vast. But he forced the words to come out anyway, casting his mind backwards.

"When she got Caligula, she called me handsome, after she picked him off my feet," Matt said, swallowing.

"And she's been getting worse?" Foggy said, sounding like he already knew the answer.

Matt tried to nod, and then said out loud, "Yes, Foggy."

"Has she--did she try to--"

Matt had to correct any misconceptions. "She hasn't tried any physical contact before today," he said quietly. "I was going to--I was going to scream for you if she did, I know you don't want anyone using me, and I'm so grateful, thank you so much--"

Foggy made a soft, encouraging noise. Matt made himself keep going. "And Anna told me to tell her if she was...doing anything, but I didn't know if Anna included just--words--innuendos, and, and flirting, and insinuations anything or if she'd be furious at me for wasting her time, and you weren't there so I couldn't scream for you--"

Foggy sucked in a sharp breath.

"And I couldn't just tell her I wasn't allowed," Matt said, miserably. But Foggy deserved the truth. "If she was willing to do that in the first place, she wouldn't listen to reason, she would have just kissed me anyway, and then I couldn't run, she was blocking the way, but the stairs were there, so I--"

"So you fell down the stairs," Foggy said. He sounded angry again.

Matt nodded, almost teary at the pain in his face and head and how he'd disappointed Foggy.

"Okay," Foggy said after a minute. "But--Matt--could you have shoved her? It's not your fault if you couldn't have, I'm not blaming you, you are the victim here, but in the future--we are a team, okay? We are a team. And it's--I refuse to be angry at you--but in the future, tell me if anything starts. If anyone says anything. Even if it never goes beyond just that, I want to know. Anything that could turn into anything matters, alright?

"That's how people start with harassment, anyway. They start off small and then they see what you'll do, and then they work their way up. One of my friends from college, she got harassed by the head of the fucking Christian Athletes Group like that. It started out with just comments like that. And it wasn't her fault, and I'm not blaming you, but--what's the reasoning behind not shoving out of the way?"

Matt blinked and opened his mouth to explain. "She's your sister," he said helplessly. "And it's not reasonable force to--to shove a free person, without orders, not if--for a stranger, if a stranger was trying to poach me, maybe, but she's your sister, you love her."

"Oh, God, Matt," Foggy said, sounding like he was close to crying himself. "Oh, God. Oh. Matt, listen to me, okay? I-- I don't care about that she's my sister. You can always use literally any means to get away from anyone who's going to--do anything to you. Got it? I wouldn't have been angry if you'd shoved past her.

"That's not--how you respond to shit like that is not the important part, that's not the part that pisses me off, that's the part that--look, I don't--let me put it like this. I would rather know that you're gonna defend yourself, and deal with anyone getting stupid about that, than be scared that someone is hurting you and you won't defend yourself, okay? Does that make sense?"

Matt breathed in and out, turning it around and around in his head. "I think I understand, Foggy," he said tentatively. "You want me to stop _anyone_ from using me in any way, even if it means using physical force."

"Yes," Foggy said. "Yes, that's it. Oh, Matt," and then there's just quiet breathing for a minute.

Then Foggy said, "I need to know what she told you, though. I need to know all the things she said to you, everything that you can coherently remember. I've got a lot of yelling to do at her and I need to know why."

Matt opened up his mouth, and started to recite the list. The 'you're so hot' and the 'God I wish I had an ass that good' and the 'you are the most adorable thing on the planet' and the 'if I were Foggy I wouldn't just be tiptoeing around you, that's for damn sure' and the 'your voice sounds so smooth' and the 'Foggy talks about you like you're a monk or something but goddamn, that would be a waste', every single cringeworthy comment.

And at the end of it, Foggy's heartbeat is like an entire vortex of storms. Matt's face is ashen.

"Fucking christ," Foggy says, beyond angry, into a cold territory. "I am going to go deal with her, okay, Matt? I'm coming back. I'll set an alarm. The longest I will be gone is one hour, and then I will be back, and we can cuddle or, or, watch Legally Blonde or do whatever, okay? Stay here."

His voice is flat and icy and full of absolute, diamond-making pressure. It's the first time Foggy has ever sounded like Winter. And it's because someone hurt Matt.

Matt listens to him go, and once he goes, Matt can't keep his eyes closed. So he scans the perimeter back and forth with his hearing, focusing on his bodyguarding training, on how to keep watch as best he can.

He focuses, and eventually calms, and moves a little on his bed that Foggy still, miraculously, won't touch.

 

\--

 

 

 

 

Foggy goes back home, feeling angrier than he's ever felt before.

How _dare_ she? What is wrong with Candace? Who _says_ things like that? There is _no_ excuse. He's shaking with rage as he swings open the door, steps inside, and shouts, "Candace, get your stupid ass down here!"

"Don't swear at your sister," Dad says from the kitchen where he and Anna are sitting, Anna looking stone-faced.

"Shut the fuck up, Dad," Foggy says, and ignores his Dad's look of shocked incredulity. He focuses on Candace walking down the stairs, looking mutinous and sad.

"Foggy, I didn't know he was going to fall down the stairs," she says, pleading. "Is Matt okay?"

And that, well. That makes him glow with anger, feeling like he's about to burst with it. "It's times like this that I'm glad we're only half-siblings," Foggy says, wanting to make her hurt, make her hurt like Matt's hurting, lying scared and alone at their home.

Candace stares at him. "What--"

"Matt is...as okay as he can be, I suppose, no thanks to you," Foggy says, and runs a hand through his hair. "He's fucking freaked the fuck out and probably finding some way to blame himself for this, but he doesn't need to go to the ER or something, which is good, because if you had _physically_ hurt that much, I would--well, I don't know what I'd do but you would fucking regret it."

"Foggy, I don't get it," Candace pleads. "I don't--Mom tried to explain it but I don't get it, it was just a kiss, what is the big deal--"

"Candace," he says, ice spreading inside of him. "I tried to tell you before. I thought you got it, but apparently not, so let me spell it out for you: _in the eyes of almost everyone in the world, Matt has no rights_. Got that? To almost _everyone_ else, Matt can't say no, he can't escape you, he can't shove you away or tell you to stop, he can't defend himself unless _I_ tell him he can--"

"Defend himself from _what_? All I did was flirt with him! He never even seemed all that uncomfortable! I just thought he was _shy_!"

"CANDACE," and it comes out a near-scream, "Matt _threw himself down the stairs_ to get away from you, because he couldn't think of any other way to make you stop! Matt has been anticipating you trying to _rape_ him because you said all that shit!"

Candace turns white and steps back. "What--I'd never--I was never going to--"

"Oh, you weren't? So you weren't escalating a pattern of objectification, intimidation, and harassment to the point where tonight, on _fucking_ Christmas Eve, you tried to fucking ASSAULT HIM--"

"I'm a teenage girl! Why is he scared of me! He's older, and, and, he's this strong cut guy who's over a half a foot taller than me--"

"THAT MAKES NO FUCKING DIFFERENCE!" Foggy realizes he's screaming, towering with fury, fists clenched. "Candace, Matt is a _slave_. In this situation, _you_ are the one with all the goddamn power. You are the asshole. _You_ are the violent, horrible person I have to protect him from, just like all the others--"

"I didn't mean--" and now she looks like she'll cry or be sad or something, and Foggy wants to slap her. Fuck her fucking _feelings_.

"I am going to--okay, you know what, no, I'm going to exercise my stupid fucking power, given to me by this stupid world," Foggy says, finding a solution. "From this second on, you are not allowed to touch Matt, talk to Matt, or even fucking _look_ at him. You are not allowed to be in the same room as him, or, or communicate with him in any way, got it? _Got it?_ "

"Foggy, you're being a bit harsh--" Dad tries to say. Anna shushes him. Foggy ignores him, intent on Candace.

" _Got it_? Or do I need to put it in monosyllabic words?"

Candace glares at him. "Fine," she spits. "Fine, you go ahead and--and treat me like a criminal--"

"Oh, you have no idea what they do to criminals," Foggy snarls. "You really wanna know what they do? Especially once they enslave criminals? You wanna know about, about the beatings and rape and the way they starve them and the cigarette burn scars and the fucking brainwashing--"

He stops himself and breathes in and out. "I thought I could trust you," he says, quieter now. "I thought I could trust you, my _family_ , my _sister_ with Matt. I thought he'd be safe here. Apparently, I'm just too fucking naive for my own good. I'm leaving now."

"Will you be back tomorrow? It's going to be Christmas."

"I don't know," Foggy says, and twists the knife a little. "But Matt is not coming back to this house until I can trust that nobody here will try to fucking _assault_ him."

"Let me give you two things," Anna says calmly. "Here's one--" and it's a gift-wrapped package. "This is our present for Matt."

"And here's this," and it's a Tupperware container of something. "Matt was making a pie before Candace decided to forcibly kiss him," Anna says, and gives Candace a flat, cutting side-stare.

"Thanks," Foggy says, and takes both. "I--thanks, he'll like that."

Anna nods. Foggy turns and walks out, stalking off into the darkness.

\--

Inside the room, Bee sits there, knife in hand, door barricaded shut.

They have never felt so angry, so small and ashamed before. They had no idea Candace was doing _anything_ like that, not to anyone, and especially Matt. They should have been there. They should have run interference. They should have done _something_.

But they can't, not yet, not until they have another place to live, they feel terrible but they need a roof over their heads and they can't do anything--

Except. Wait. They can give Matt his present from them. They nod to theirself. They'll wait until the Nelsons are asleep and sneak out and do that.

But in the meantime, they can't pry their fingers off the knife's handle, or calm their racing heart. They should be used to sleeping in a house where things like that went on, they should be used to it by now, but they're not. Somehow, they're not. Somehow, the shadows look just as scary and twisted and monstrous as they always have.

 

\--

 

 

 

 

 

Matt keeps watch, but it's difficult. A part of his mind keeps twisting, shifting, sending him back to different beds in different owner's bedrooms, with hands touching him and Egyptian cotton sheets and the pet sleeping next to him. He can't keep entirely calm, and he feels vaguely ashamed of how broken he feels. He should be over this by now.

But then Foggy comes back, and Matt relaxes, sinking into the bed. It's okay. Foggy is sweet. Foggy is kind. Foggy is generous and soft-bodied and possessive. Foggy will be there, and Matt will be safe, and he will relax.

Foggy comes into the bedroom and puts two things down, and Matt startles to realize that one of them is the apple pie mix he'd made before--

Before he'd had to throw himself down the stairs and potentially damage his owner's property. Like an _idiot_.

But what else was he supposed to do? And Foggy had even said he wasn't angry at Matt. Matt takes a deep breath and releases his anger at himself out with his carbon dioxide. There's no use for it anymore.

_You can make no mistakes and still lose,_ Matt reminds himself, and is grateful all over again for training, for conditioning, for his education.

"Hey, you okay?" Foggy asks, frowning. "You look a bit--pale."

"Can I--" Matt murmurs, and gestures with one hand to Foggy's bed, half-hoping, half-dreading--

"Yeah, yeah, that's a good idea, come here," and Matt rises and goes to sit down with Foggy on his bed, and they end up so that Matt is curled up, lying with his head on Foggy's legs, his beautiful soft pillowed legs, and Foggy is sitting up and stroking his hair.

"Hey," Foggy says gently. "This is good? You're not panicking?"

"I keep feeling their hands on me," Matt says, and it's not at all what he intended to say, but he runs with it. "I want to feel yours instead, please, Foggy," he begs. Foggy is so much better than all the other owners, even though he's confusing and difficult to please.

"Okay," Foggy says, and his other hand comes down and gently traces Matt's lips. Matt kisses his fingers, overcome with happiness, safety, warmth. Foggy is like everything good left in the world in one perfect body.

"Shh," Foggy says quietly. "I just want to make you feel better." Matt doesn't realize he's making an incoherent noise for a second, and then quiets at the shushing.

"I told Candace she's not allowed to talk to you, or touch you, or be alone in a room with you," Foggy says, and Matt feels overcome. "Would it help if I told you that, too?"

"Please, Foggy," Matt says, and Foggy's hands cradle his head so, so gently. So protectively.

"Okay," Foggy says. "Okay, then the only thing you're allowed to do with regards to Candace is get away from her, okay? You're not allowed to communicate with her in any way, or touch her, unless you're getting away from her, unless you're defending yourself. And you have to defend yourself. Got it?"

Matt's so grateful for the orders he could cry. Instead, he says, "Yes, Foggy, thank you," and tilts his head up into Foggy's lap further to kiss his hands all over, taste the anger-sweat and the cold night air.

"God, Matt," Foggy says. "God. I'm so sorry. I thought they'd be safe, I never thought this would happen to you. I never thought Candace would do that, I wouldn't have ever left you alone with her if I knew she'd do that."

Matt nuzzles into Foggy's hands. "I'm okay now," he says. "My head doesn't hurt any more."

"And you're not--uh--you don't feel anyone else's hands on you?"

And Matt shivers violently because _now_ he does again, and Foggy tugs and Matt turns and crawls further until they're facing each other, holding tightly onto each other, and it erases the phantom sensation of manicured fingernails and rough man's hands and Master Robert's spidery fingers.

"Kiss me," Matt whispers into Foggy's neck. "Please, please, can I have a kiss, please," he begs, wanting nothing more.

"Where?"

"My collar, please Foggy, please, I want only you to own me, please," and Matt would feel pathetic but instead all he feels is want.

Foggy leans down and gently kisses Matt's collar, and it feels like heaven. Idyllic.

"Only you," Matt whispers. "Only you, please Foggy, please can I only be yours, only belong to you, forever, please don't ever sell me, I promise I'll never be a burden again."

"Matt," Foggy says, and reaches up to press their foreheads together, noses aligned. "Matt, you're not a burden, ever, okay? I depend on you and you depend on me. And you matter. God, you matter so much."

Matt shivers and stills, and breathes in and out, the smell of Foggy, every tiny detail. His hair. His sheets. His clothes. His beautifully soft body. Every thing about him, everything that makes Foggy _Foggy_ , so ineffably good.

"Thank you," Matt says. "I can't--I can't ever thank you enough."

Foggy hugs him. "And I can't thank you enough, either. We're good. We're a team."

They remain there for a little while, just breathing each other in and out. Matt is safe. Matt is cocooned, held, good, valuable, precious, _priceless_. Irreplaceable. It's safe to be a little bit pathetic around Foggy. He doesn't have to be perfect.

Eventually, though, his skin prickles and starts the song of too-much, too-much, overstimulation.

"Let me make you the pie," Matt says, so quiet. "Please, Foggy. We don't have any pie crust, but I could do _something_ \--"

"Do a 'deconstructed' pie," Foggy says, and Matt can't help it, he laughs at that, belly-deep. "I'm serious. Like those pretentious nutwits on _Cutthroat Kitchen_."

Matt laughs, his whole body a plucked harp string, vibrating just right. "'Deconstructed' just means you couldn't hack the real dish."

They both giggle, and Matt smiles. "I'll make something out of it," he says. "Apple pie filling inside cinnamon and Christmas spice cupcakes," and that sounds good.

"With whipped cream on top?"

"Bourbon whipped cream," Matt says decisively, and gets up. "If I can touch the liquor."

"Of course you can," Foggy says. "Everything that's mine is yours, now, Matt. Especially food. God knows I don't do much with it."

Matt smiles and ducks his head and gets the Tupperware container, and goes to salvage this into a good dessert. They'll also have to eat dinner, but maybe Foggy will declare it a cupcakes-for-dinner party or want just fried eggs or something.

Things will be okay. Matt knows it in his gut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from Essex Hemphill's "American Wedding", here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/101508228768/fypoetry-a-performance-of-essex


	100. I’m sorry I came hard and sharp and full of claws

Bee comes over when it's near midnight.  
  
They're both still awake, Matt and Foggy, Matt because a part of him is terrified that Foggy will change his mind upon waking, and Foggy because he's too angry to sleep, too worried, too guilty and scared. He inadvertently sent Matt off to the wolves over and over without seeing what he was doing _once_ , and he's so scared of doing it again.  
  
Matt opens the door, and he can hear their grin, it's so wide and odd on their face.  
  
They hold something out to him, and then their tablet says, "Can I come in? I have your Christmas present."  
  
"It's a bit early," Matt murmurs, but steps back, confused. "My--for me?" he says, brain catching up to their words. He hasn't had a real Christmas present in years; Master Viktor gave him a chocolate bar and a respite from his brother, who liked Matt to struggle and scream when he was used. Some of his owners fed him some of the Christmas dinner, of course, but not a genuine, wrapped present. He's unsure if this is appropriate, but--refusing what a free person gives you can also be inappropriate--  
  
And as Bee comes in, Foggy calls quietly from the bedroom, "Everything okay, Matt?"  
  
"Bee says they have a Christmas present for me, Foggy," Matt calls back, soft and submissively, like he's supposed to be. He's determined to be good for Foggy. Foggy is the best owner he's ever had, and he's _not_ going back to being underused.  
  
"Really? Awesome," Foggy says.  
  
"May I--can I have it?" Matt asks, hoping, confused, bracing himself for possible disappointment--  
  
"What? Yeah. Of course."  
  
Matt controls his thread of irritation at the _of course_ , and turns back to Bee, who seems to be--tense? Excited? Their heartbeat is so fast, and Matt's starting to notice that their blood pressure seems very often low.  
  
Then he takes the outstretched thing in their hands, which as he takes it, he realizes is a teddy bear.  
  
Matt blinks and feels it to be sure, but it's definitely a very soft teddy bear. He tilts his head, wondering why, thinking vaguely of the few months he'd had to play a pseudo-child for an owner.  
  
(He hadn't been terribly good at it, but he'd given it his best shot, and that particular owner had sighed, patted him on the head, and sent him off back to the auction house with a high rating and recommendation. Really, it had been rather kind of him.)  
  
And then there's something heavy and metal inside of a pocket in it--  
  
And Matt feels it. It's a small, switchblade knife.  
  
[Just in case,] they explain against a cabinet. [Just in case.]  
  
Matt blinks and swallows back a flood of sudden emotion. He doesn't need it against _Foggy_ of course, Foggy was nothing like Master Robert, they could hardly be said to be the same species, but that--  
  
That was a gesture. One of absolute solidarity. One of backup, support, _I'll help you, I'm on your side_. A hand squeezing his in the night. The pet mouthing _sorry, sorry, it'll be over soon_ against his neck. Being patched up, snuck fresh mangos.  
  
Matt lifts his head. "Thank you," he whispers, and Bee's a person, but he doesn't kiss their hand. That's for Foggy.  
  
Instead, he reaches out and squeezes theirs, tight and strong, his fingers gentle on their bones.  
  
[I got one for myself, too. You don't think it's childish?]  
  
[You're a person. People get to have what they want.]  
  
He can hear their raised eyebrow. [You're a person too.]  
  
Matt snorts at it like it's a joke, because it is. "Don't be absurd," he murmurs. "But thank you. I love it. I don't--I don't have anything to give you," he says suddenly, back going straight, realizing he's misstepped hard--  
  
But all they do is shake their head. [I have an idea for something you can give me. Later, in a while. When you have more money.]  
  
Matt tilts his head, but he knows how this goes. You put in, you get out. Someone else puts in, you put out. Granted, he's almost perfectly certain by this point that Bee won't try to use him, and he's safe, he's ordered to defend himself, but now he's curious about what they want his money for.  
  
Well, he'll discover it another time. "Alright," he murmurs.  
  
There's an awkward silence, and then they sigh heavily. [Gotta go back before they realize I'm gone and remember I exist.]  
  
"Avoid Candace," Matt murmurs.  
  
[Oh, I'll avoid that bitch, all right,] they reassure him, body going stiff with anger, and then they take two steps forward and hug him, their tiny, bony body stronger than he thought.  
  
[Merry Christmas,] they tap against his back.  
  
"Merry Christmas, Barely Legal," he murmurs against them, and they breathe in sharply.  
  
Foggy walks over as they start to break apart. "Hey," he says. "Sorry--my present for you is still at the house--"  
  
Bee waves a hand, and then types out, "No, it's okay. I'm going back there now anyway. And you got me free."  
  
"That's not--that was just basic decency," Foggy protests, and Matt resists the urge to giggle. Foggy is so, so ridiculous, so adorable in his ironclad morals. He's like a character out of a storybook. Matt can't quite think of him as real.  
  
"Merry Christmas," they type, and Foggy says back, Matt harmonizing like he's been taught, "Merry Christmas."  
  
They leave, heartbeat cheerful, and Matt turns to Foggy, head tilted, teddy bear in arms.  
  
"They gave you a stuffed animal? That's adorable," Foggy says, and his heart rate goes high up, and his body language is all admiring and happy.  
  
Matt isn't even scared that Foggy's a bit aroused now.  
  
\--  
  
Foggy doesn't actually mean to get hard at the sight, but it's impossible. Matt is beautiful almost all the time, like an actor in a movie, but he's even more beautiful when he's relaxed and happy and safe, smiling beatifically like a field of sunflowers. And with a teddy bear in his arms--a soft, graham-cracker colored teddy bear, with fur that's swirled in roses--he's even cuter than he is when he's asleep, and Foggy's body reacts.  
  
But he doesn't do anything, doesn't scare Matt, and that's even better.  
  
Foggy snags another one of the cupcakes--Matt had made actual apple-pie-filled Christmas spice cupcakes, cinnamon and cloves and allspice and ginger, making the whole apartment smell good, and there's a bourbon-laced whipped cream in a little spiral on top, and it's heaven--and then goes back to his bed, where he listens to Christmas carols with his earbuds in and starts looking at free patterns on Ravelry for his next projects.  
  
He finds one of a blanket made of eighty-one different granny squares, and downloads it with fascination. It doesn't look too hard, and he could give it away if he didn't like it in the end.  
  
He and Matt eventually fall asleep very, very late, and Foggy wakes up at noon on Christmas morning with the smell of coffee and bacon.  
  
It's odd, it feels unnatural to not be at his parents', with Candace picking the lock and tackling him, but Foggy doesn't even entertain the idea of taking Matt back there and breaking his vow to keep Matt away from Candace, or worse, the idea of leaving Matt alone on Christmas so Foggy could go back home. Fuck that.  
  
Matt _is_ his home now, in a way.  
  
"Morning," Foggy says, yawning and going over to find crispy bacon, fried eggs, and what smells like some sort of potatoes on the kitchen table, as well as pancakes and orange juice and hot coffee.  
  
He suddenly wants to kiss Matt, and refrains. It's Christmas.  
  
"Good morning, Foggy," Matt says, smiling widely, and takes a seat after Foggy does.  
  
Foggy serves himself first--he's learned the hard way that if he doesn't, Matt will spend the entire meal twitchy, toes curled tight--and makes sure to take the first bite of his egg loudly, with appreciation. Matt does them perfectly.  
  
"Mmm," he moans as he bites into the pancake. "God, this is good. You're awesome. You're the best."  
  
Matt actually blushes at that as he serves himself and delicately puts a bite of potato-and-onion hash into his mouth. "Thank you, Foggy," he says, shy pride and intense pleasure all over his face.  
  
Foggy doesn't pay any attention to how his dick twitches a little at that. It's not getting what it wants, and he's not going to freak out. He's slept, now, next to Matt, cuddled him and calmed him down. He's got more self-control.  
  
They eat, and it's ridiculously delicious.  
  
What did Foggy ever do to deserve Matt?  
  
After the lunch, though, it's definitely time for presents.  
  
"Presents," Foggy announces, and stands up to get his for Matt, and Anna's and Dad's too.  
  
Matt looks confused as Foggy puts them on the floor in-between their beds, and sits on the floor. It breaks his heart a little, because of _course_ Matt probably hasn't had any real Christmas presents from his fucking abusive torturers.  
  
Foggy pushes away his anger, and resolves to just be better than them in every way. He can be the good person.  
  
"Here," he says. "You first."  
  
Matt blinks and then looks startled and beginning to freak out, and he's got presents in his hands for Foggy, so Foggy switches gears. "Or me first, whichever."  
  
Matt smiles, then, and hands Foggy two presents, which he gleefully tears open. Fuck yeah, consumerism as love.  
  
One is a set of three skeins of yarn, which is illegally soft. "Oh, god," he says, feeling them. They're a dark wine-colored red, a black-blue, and a neutral brown, and they're all incredible. Foggy checks the label, and his jaw drops. He doesn't know too much about yarn yet, but he knows that alpaca, silk, cashmere and merino blend is _expensive_ , and it feels amazing, perfectly warm and stretchy.  
  
"Oh, wow, oh, god, _Matt_ ," he says, overcome, and the dives for his other present. It's--  
  
It's the _three Alexander Farragut movies he doesn't have_ , the only three he can't find, and Foggy makes a high-pitched noise of pure glee and throws himself forward, hugging Matt like a teddy bear, saying, "MATT, Matt, you're the best, I--"  
  
He chokes off his declaration of love, because he refuses to hurt Matt in any way. He loves him too much for that. Instead, he just squeals, and then says, choking up at the thoughtfulness of it, "Matt, you are the greatest ever, we are totally gonna watch ALL of the movies, they're all lawyer dramas, they made me wanna be a lawyer, oh god--"  
  
Matt's grinning so big it looks like it hurts. Foggy hugs him, and impulsively runs a hand through his hair and kisses his forehead and then nose-kisses him too, and Matt laughs and writhes a little.  
  
Foggy pulls back. "Okay, dude, now you," and he pushes Anna and Dad's box forward first.  
  
Matt opens it slowly, with the help of a pair of scissors, and he delicately doesn't rip any of the wrapping paper, which drives Foggy nuts, but he won't comment. Matt deserves to not feel like he unwraps presents _wrong_ , or something.  
  
It's something that Foggy vaguely recognizes, and it says 'STAND MIXER' on the side in bright pink writing. "It says it's a 'stand mixer'," Foggy tells Matt, who suddenly goes from confused to lit up like a s'mores fire.  
  
"Oh," Matt says, a small, pleased look on his face. "That'll make things quicker, for baking," he says. "I'll have to--this is from Miss Anna?"  
  
Foggy doesn't fuss about the title. "Yeah, it's from Anna and Dad, it says."  
  
Matt traces the box. "I'll have to write them a thank-you note," he says thoughtfully. "I'm a bit out of practice at those," he says, and his voice is suddenly soft and nostalgic.  
  
Foggy doesn't dwell. He gets Matt the first of the two presents from him, and Matt opens that one slowly too, Foggy explaining as he does, "It took me a bit of intense eBay searching to find it, but this guy in Queens had it, and he kept it in mint condition, totally vacuum-sealed, and I had to tell him I was getting it for Matt Murdock for him to agree to sell it, but I got it, so."  
  
Matt looks apprehensive, and then wipes his face blank, and opens it up.  
  
"It's your Dad's robe, the one he wore most of the time," Foggy explains. "It took me a while to find it--but--" and then he shuts up as Matt's hands open the vacuum-sealed bag and pulls it out, shaking, and Matt curls his knees up to his chest.  
  
Foggy has a sudden feeling like lightning is about to strike. He smells ozone.  
  
"It--" Matt says, sounding choked, and then flat, and then he brings it up to his nose.  
  
"It smells like him," Matt whispers, and his voice breaks, and then Matt puts it down, shivering all over like he's going out of it, like he's terrified, and his mouth opens and tears stream down his face and--  
  
Matt _screams_ \--

\--

It all comes rushing back. Matt remembers everything.  
  
He remembers poached eggs after Mass on Sundays, and Dad tucking him in, Dad ruffling his hair, Dad hugging him, Dad having him take the sip before stitching him up, Dad with him in the hospital, Dad bragging about him to anyone and everyone, _my Matty's the smartest kid in Hell's Kitchen, in all of New York, he's a frickin' genius, nothing will ever slow him down, he's learned a whole other writing system so fast, he picks it all up like that, he'll be a doctor or a lawyer or something, just you wait and see_ , Dad hugging him, Dad helping him, Dad sounding so proud when he mastered how to use the cane to get around, Dad being there when he got his hair cut after the accident for the first time and it was scary because he could hear scissors but hadn't mastered knowing where they were, Dad's blood, stitching up Dad, Dad dying, Dad telling him _I'll always love you, Matt, no matter what--_  
  
Matt doesn't realize what kind of horrific noise he's making, or that he's rocking back and forth, inconsolable, or that he's clutching the robe still. All he can think about is Dad, and how he's dead and he'll always _be_ dead and it's all Matt's fault and Dad would be so disappointed in him now--  
  
And something eventually cuts through the endless weight of memories-- a hand, on his shoulder-- the smell of sharp salt--  
  
And Matt realizes he's curled up, sobbing hysterically, crying like he hasn't for years, has been doing so for far too long, being so stupid and selfish and ungrateful and--  
  
"Hey, if you want, I can--" and his owner's hand comes to take away the robe, and Matt can't--  
  
Matt sobs out, "No!" and yanks it behind himself, he can't, he can't have it and then have it taken away, this is the cruelest thing anyone's ever done to him--

And then realizes what he's done and breaks down just that little more, fear rushing in like a hurricane. God, what has he done? Where is he? Which owner is he with?  
  
Matt doesn't know, but he knows he's just done something horrific, something cosmically wrong, something that he's never supposed to do, so he shakily uncurls and moves to kneeling like he's supposed to, face to the carpet, and makes himself say, voice still shaking, a burning cathedral, "I apologize, master, please punish me--"  
  
And then his owner--whichever one it is, Matt doesn't _know_ , time has become unstuck and he can't quite feel anything all of a sudden, it's all numb and dead and impersonal, apart from the part of him that's curled up and screaming wordlessly in the back of his mind--comes and his hand curls over Matt's face, and Matt waits for the slap he deserves, the kicks, the whip. Saying _no_ to his owner like that. What a pathetic, disgusting, stupid, worthless slave he is.  
  
"Matt," his owner says, voice upset but somehow gentle, "Matt, no, no, it's okay--Matt--Matt, do you know who I am? Where you are?"  
  
"My owner," Matt murmurs, and for some reason knows he's not supposed to put the _master_ there. "With my owner." In what Matt's pretty sure, now, is a _bedroom_ , but that keeps dissolving, the knowledge bleeding out his ears. The walls seem to pulsate back and forth, and nothing exists except the floor and Matt and his fear and the robe and his owner.  
  
His owner, whose body sounds upset and male, "Matt, oh--Matt, c'mere," and Matt crawls forward. Direct order. Maybe his owner wants to hit him up close.  
  
His owner hugs him tightly, squeezes him, and sits on the floor with him, and says, "Matt, Matt, I'm Foggy, okay? You're with Foggy, you're--stay with me, come back to me, it's Christmas, okay, I'm sorry I gave you that, Matt please--"  
  
Matt tries to interpret the order and focuses. It's Christmas? Why would he be smelling something of Dad's on Christmas?  
  
Matt tries to focus. He needs to get with the goddamn program already. Nothing makes sense; why is he being held, not punished? Is his owner going to punish him later? What's going on?  
  
Matt reaches out a hand, and traces the carpet, and inhales through his nose--  
  
And it's Foggy. Oh. His owner right now is _Foggy_ , who--who has Matt as a _doll_ , who wants Matt happy and smiling and sweet, not breaking down like some broken piece of trash. Fuck. Foggy, who deserves so much better.  
  
Matt says, "Foggy, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please, I'm sorry," and he's not even sure what he's begging for. To be forgiven? To be punished? "Please, I'm so, so sorry, I didn't mean to, please punish me so I won't do it again--"  
  
"Matt, shit, no," and it feels cruel to deny him proper maintenance. God. But it's his owner's right to deny him whatever he pleases, so Matt tries to calm down, but is still involuntarily crying like an _idiot_. Jesus, what is wrong with him?  
  
Matt formulates the correct kind of response. "Thank you for the present, Foggy," he says, plucking the script, and pulling back to kiss Foggy's hands, both of them, fingertips against his lips, hastily wiping them off before he does. "I'm sorry I was ungrateful, please punish me," and he waits.  
  
"What--no, Matt, no, it's--fuck that. No punishments, remember? You're with me, you're safe."  
  
Matt feels confused. How is he supposed to be obedient and expensive and therefore valuable and therefore _safe_ if he's not maintained? But then he fishes in his still-blurry memories and grabs at one of the only punishment Foggy's ever given him that was a straightforward punishment, for taking off his collar like the stupid slut he's always half-afraid he's going to end up being.  
  
Oh. He's supposed to-- _oh_. He gets it now. Foggy doesn't want to punish him, Foggy doesn't appreciate his distress, Foggy likes spoiling him even to an unhealthy extent.  
  
Matt's supposed to punish _himself_ , away from Foggy, where he doesn't have to see it or be upset by it. Of _course_. It warms his heart to be trusted so, to be appointed his own overseer, in a way.  
  
Foggy also doesn't want him physically hurting himself, so he'll have to think of some way around that. But Matt's intelligent, Matt's creative. He can figure something out, and this way, he can make sure he's not in danger of brain damage or value-lowering scars.  
  
God. He's so lucky.  
  
Matt refocuses, and Foggy's still mostly hugging him. "Shit," Foggy says. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Matt, I didn't mean to fucking make you cry and give you a flashback. Oh, fuck, Matt, it's _Christmas_."  
  
Matt's not sure how to respond. "Thank you for it," he says, gentling his voice. "It's--it's the best gift. I l--" and he changes gears, he's a slave, slaves do not love, that is ridiculous and a mockery of love, "I will always appreciate it," he says instead. "I--I don't have anything of Dad's," and then he stops. He's _still_ being disobedient, uppity, getting above his station.  
  
Of course has nothing of Dad's. He has nothing at all. He's a _slave_ , a thing that is owned, not a person who could own things.  
  
"Oh." Foggy says, and then squeezes him. "Oh. Well. Um. Let me--here, I got a second thing for you, and then later I'll--I'll call Anna, and get you a third thing, you deserve a thing that won't make you cry, jesus, I'm sorry Matt."  
  
Matt sits back, going back to where the robe is, shivering. Foggy passes him something and it's _heavy_ , and now that Matt can focus, he's curious as to what it is. The edges of the room are still hazy, and a part of him is still terrified, but it's a familiar terror, so familiar it's soothing.  
  
\--  
  
Foggy wants to punch himself in the face a little bit less as Matt carefully unwraps the second thing, and takes it out, face still red and puffy and making Foggy want to cry, too, looking at it.  
  
It's been a half-hour since Matt screamed, sounding like a character in a movie whose entire world came crashing down, and he still seems kind of out of it.  
  
Foggy's never been so angry at himself before. He sent Matt into a panic spiral and a flashback and a crying fit on _Christmas_. He wants to punch himself in the dick.  
  
Matt takes it out, and Foggy hastily explains, "It's a weighted blanket. Miriam--my therapist--has them, and they can also be heated, and this one is, it's electric as well. So you can just plug it in and turn it on there--" and Matt's fingers seem to deftly find the little dial-- "And then it heats up, and, uh, it's lined with genuine silk, and it was kinda expensive but I hope you like it!"  
  
Foggy winces at himself.  
  
Matt's hands run all over it, and he bows his head, but smiles faintly, in a confused-puppy kind of way that makes Foggy want to hug him forever and never let go.  
  
"Thank you, Foggy," Matt says, and starts to move it over his lap, and then gropes around for the bag the robe came in. The robe that Foggy's starting to seriously regret giving Matt. "It's wonderful. Thank you," and then he leans forward and presses a familiar kiss to Foggy's hand.  
  
Foggy wants to puke. He feels awful. Literally half of his presents for Matt had the opposite of their intended effect. His skin itches with the need to go out and get Matt a third one, and he knows it has to be the thing on Matt's wishlist that counted as a real gift. He didn't get it for Matt because he couldn't bring himself to do it, but now he knows he has to.  
  
Besides, it's patronizing of him to decide that he shouldn't get Matt something because _he_ thought _Matt_ shouldn't want it. It's not his job to decide what Matt should and shouldn't want and like.  
  
"Hey, so, um, I'm--are you gonna be okay, if I go call Anna and get her to take me to a place so I can get you a present that _won't_ make you cry?"  
  
Matt blinks. "I'm okay, Foggy," he says. "I apologize for crying--"  
  
Jesus fucking god. "No," Foggy says, as calm as he can make himself. "It's--Matt, you get to have all of the feelings, okay? It's my fuckup here."  
  
Matt looks like he doesn't understand, but nods.  
  
"Okay," Foggy says. "Uh. I'm gonna get dressed and call her and get you a proper present, and then--and then--what do you want for dinner? We're getting take-out. No making you cook on Christmas."  
  
Matt tilts his head, and looks like he can't even think about food.  
  
"It's cool, I'll figure something out," Foggy says, and hastily gets up. "And--hey, is there anything I should get you? Anything else you want? Seriously, Matt, let's have more Christmas spirit here."  
  
Matt bites his lip, and Foggy makes an encouraging noise. Matt says, voice almost a whisper, "Can I please go for a run, Foggy?"  
  
"Uh, sure," Foggy says. "Just don't freeze to death or, uh, fall off any rooftops, okay?"  
  
Matt nods. "Yes, Foggy," he says. His hands are clutching the bag where he put the robe back in so hard, his knuckles are white.  
  
Foggy gets up, and throws himself into clothes and a coat, and calls Anna, and practically runs out of there after walking back in the bedroom to check on Matt.  
  
Matt's sitting up on his knees on the floor, face crumpling, feeling the robe with just one finger. His lips form the word _Dad_ over and over again.  
  
Foggy turns and leaves him alone. If Matt wants space, he deserves space.  
  
It's just that he's not sure what Matt will be like once he gets back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from Jeanann Verlee's "Genetics of Regret", here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/111880645788/fypoetry-jeanann-verlee-performs-genetics-of


	101. they cracked me open, dad, I know you don’t want to hear about it

It's so hard to put the robe away, to stop touching it, but Matt does it anyway. He can do difficult things. He's strong. He knows he is.  
  
But he feels broken.   
  
He wants to cry, he wants Dad to come and make it better, he wants his _dad_ , but he can't. It's not allowed. He takes a few deep breaths, seals it airlessly, and stands up. His legs wobble as he forces himself to put on weather-appropriate clothing, button his hoodie up so that his collar isn't visible, and leave.   
  
He needs to run. He wants to die, wants to throw himself into the Hudson and swallow water until he can go to Dad, but he won't. Suicide is a mortal sin.  
  
Matt runs, and runs, and he doesn't know where he is or where he's going, and he hears faint snatches of things he doesn't know are real or not--Mistress Sharon's pet's last wheezing breaths, Charlotte's sobs, Bee's terrified heartbeat, Dad's corpse leaking blood--and he finds himself at the unthinkable place.  
  
He's standing over his Dad's grave.  
  
Matt can't believe himself that he came here--he's a _slave_ , it's not appropriate, he's despoiling the entire cemetery, what is _wrong_ with him, he ought to be whipped for this--but he can't make himself leave, can't do anything but clear off the snow from Dad's grave, and collapse to sit in it next to the headstone. He can't not trace the engraved letters. His body has made an executive decision, and he's helpless to resist it. The mind does not control the body, not right now.  
  
 _Jack Murdock, Battlin' Jack, Father, Fighter. He always got back up._  
  
Matt almost sobs at it, because Dad _did_ , he won his final fight. But instead, all he does is breathe deeply, and think.  
  
He's already here. He knows he should leave, but he can't. It's Christmas, and it's New York, and he's at Dad's grave. He's never been allowed to be here, not once, and he can't leave before talking to him. Not yet.  
  
(The nuns thought he was already too serious and morbid, thought it would set him off, make him melt down, and Stick tired him out so much he fell asleep the second he got back from training. And then---  
  
And then. He was a slave, and he wasn't in New York, and he didn't deserve to even have a past, have a dad, much less go visit Dad's grave. He'd never ask for it, anyway. The Before was sacred, had to be kept secret and safe, apart from owners, precious and untouched.)  
  
Matt swallows. He thinks about what he could possibly say. This is quite likely the only chance he'll ever have to visit Dad's grave. Only the present exists. He's got to just say it all.  
  
"Dad," he says, and something inside of him breaks a little. Creaks. "Dad, I'm sorry," and he hangs his head. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," and he clamps a hand over his mouth so he doesn't then segue into _please punish me_ , because Dad's not an _owner_ , he can't contaminate this any more than he already is by showing up and polluting it with his presence.  
  
"Dad, I didn't--it wasn't my fault, Stick, he, he sold me, I didn't do anything that wrong, I didn't deserve that," Matt babbles, shaking. "I'm sorry, though," he says, swallowing his stupid fucking excuses.   
  
"I'm sorry, I--I never should have been so naive, I never should have trusted him, I never should have made him that bracelet, I didn't know, I should have been better, I wish I had been better, I know I'm a failure, I'm a disappointment, I'm so sorry, I, I wish you hadn't won that fight--Dad, why did you do that?"  
  
Matt has never been able to quite figure out why Dad didn't just throw it, why he died, why he chose to die winning.  
  
Except for the day he killed Master Robert. That day, he'd woken up knowing what he had to do, knowing that there was no other choice anymore. Then he'd understood, maybe. Just a tiny little bit.  
  
But that--that wasn't analogous, and Matt--  
  
He sits, going silent again, trying to think.  
  
"I wish I had had one more day," he whispers. "I wish we had had just one day to celebrate, if you really had to die, if--if that was part of the plan--just one day, and we could have celebrated, and--"  
  
Matt realizes he's too choked up to speak, and takes a minute to breathe. He has to keep talking. He'll probably never get to do this ever again.  
  
"Or, I wish, I wish I had gotten there even just a minute earlier, so I could have been there, so you wouldn't have died alone, Dad, I'm so sorry--"  
  
Matt sobs, and makes himself stop. He can't. Not here. He can't be so pathetic and weak and disgusting, not here.   
  
He starts up again. "I'm sorry. I know you--I'm sorry I'm not a person anymore, Dad, I'm sorry I failed you, but, but it's not that bad, it's not--I got good at it, Dad, I'm, I know how to be good, now, it's--I'm not completely worthless, at least. I was, I'm expensive, I'm valuable, I got an education. I went to college, Dad. I got to go to college, and I got a 4.0, and now I've got a Bachelor's, in math. Remember how you always said I was so good at math?"  
  
Matt wants his dad so, so much. His fingers trace over the inscription over and over again. He thinks about how Fogwell told him his dad would be glad he was still alive, and just in case it's true, he switches gears a little.  
  
"And now--remember how you used to say I'd be a lawyer or a doctor? Well, I can't--I can't be a doctor, slaves can't work in the medical field, I'm sorry, but--my owner is going to be a lawyer, and, and I think maybe he's being serious, that he might let be too, I'm going to Columbia--" and then Matt has to suck in some deep breaths.   
  
"I'm sorry, Dad," he says quietly. "I know you expected so much more out of me. I'm trying. I'm going to be--whatever I can be, and if I can--my owner is so nice, he's so generous, he hasn't hit me yet, not even once, not even though I really deserve it, I don't--I can't even believe it--"  
  
Matt stops. He refocuses. "If he lets me be a lawyer, I'm going to make you proud," he says, suddenly fiercely determined. "I mean, I know that I can't, I can't be what you wanted me to be, but I can at least do that. I can be the best lawyer on this earth," and that feels like a burning flame, a real emotion that's not agony.   
  
"I know it's my fault you're dead," Matt says, and that's the hell of it. It's the truth. His heartbeat is steady. "I know. I'm sorry, and I can't ever make it up to you. And it's my fault I'm like this, and I know I deserve it, but--but I can still be a lawyer. I can still be _something_. I promise."  
  
Matt hears footsteps, slow and old, someone coming from the church to the cemetery. No, no, no--  
  
"I don't think I can come back," he whispers to Dad, and stands up hastily. "But--but I'm so sorry, Dad, I love you," and that seals the deal. He's really in for it now.  
  
Matt leaves, and it's the worst thing he's ever done, but he has to. He ignores whatever the old man was saying as he escapes. His brain keeps confusing it with Master Robert's voice, sharp and vicious, saying _I think you'll look so much prettier with those vocal cords scratched, no thumbs to make you distracted, you'll make such a perfect pet--_  
  
\--  
  
Matt gets back to the apartment, back to his owner, and each step feels like lead. He thinks about what he's done, and he wants to slip on the steps, fall and crack his skull, die. He wants to just be done already. Hasn't he done enough for the world?   
  
But then, when he gets up there, there's Bee in the kitchen, trying to make something. It smells awful.  
  
"What--what are you doing here?" he asks, frowning, jerked out of his lake of self-loathing.   
  
"Foggy asked me to come here and make sure you were okay," their tablet says. "You're not okay."  
  
"I went for a run," Matt says. "I--I went to my Dad's grave."  
  
Bee goes stiff and frozen.   
  
"I know I shouldn't have, I know, I'm not supposed to--I know he'd hate me, seeing what I am. I can't--but Foggy gave me his robe," Matt says, voice going to a whisper. This is about Dad. It's a secret.  
  
He shouldn't tell Bee, but--they're like a slave, really, even without the collar. And there's no guarantee they won't end up as one again, not when the rates of K-Classes ending up being enslaved again is so high. Matt looked it up. Bee can keep a secret.   
  
"Foggy gave me one of Dad's robes, and I--I was so stupid, and ungrateful, and I cried, and now--"  
  
Now he needs to find some non-harmful way of punishing himself. He can't think of anything.  
  
Bee says, [Was your dad like the cunts' dad? Or like one of the dads on TV?]  
  
"Better," Matt snaps, offended beyond words. "Dad was--Dad was the best, he was never, ever like those utter misogynistic buffoons, he was the best, he always made sure that nothing hurt me, the accident wasn't his fault at all, he got me the cane and the books even though they cost half our fucking food budget that month--"  
  
[So he was a good dad?]  
  
"The best," Matt says, and it hurts. Dad's dead.  
  
[So why would he hate you, if he's a good dad? Those dumb psychology parenting books say good parents don't hate their kids.]  
  
"What books?" Matt asks, reeling, trying to deflect.  
  
[The ones Anna has in the guest bedroom. I read them all. They say good parents never actually hate their kids. So which is it? Was your dad good or would he hate you?]  
  
Matt--  
  
That's a good question. Matt blinks, and feels the truth settle in him, something poisonous knocking loose.  
  
"He was a good dad," he says, because that's the truth.  
  
[Then he wouldn't hate you.]  
  
It's true, and Bee knows it's true, and Matt sinks down to the floor, dazed, because he knows it's true. Dad wouldn't hate him.   
  
Dad would maybe be furious at him for getting himself enslaved, for not seeing Stick's true colors, but Dad wouldn't _hate_ him. Maybe be a little bit disgusted, because Matt's a defective slave, but not hate him.  
  
Dad wouldn't hate him. Dad doesn't hate him.  
  
Matt wants to kiss Bee, but instead he gets up, head swimming, and hugs them tightly.  
  
They smile against his shoulder. [Better?]  
  
Matt nods. [I can't tell you about Dad. He was--]  
  
[Anything from Before is a secret. I know. The cunts did have other slaves. I know that. I'm not dumb.]  
  
"No, you're not," he says. And then wrinkles his nose. "And what are you cooking?"  
  
[I was trying to make you soup.]  
  
"Please stop, it smells disgusting," Matt says, and they huff irritably and poke him in the ribs. He dodges, laughing. God. He's so glad he's relaxed around Bee, now. He needs them.  
  
And then he realizes what a great punishment will be.  
  
He won't eat. Not for long--not until the New Year. That's six days. Six days of no food isn't that much, and Foggy says if he's not hungry he doesn't have to eat, so Matt will just have to meditate away his hunger, and ignore it. He won't eat for six days, and it won't seriously hurt him, not in the long run, and then he'll get to eat on New Year's Day.   
  
Foggy will never have to know, and Matt won't do it often; only for very serious things like telling his owner _no_. It's perfect. It will feel like cleansing, like strength. Like being good for Foggy, who lets Matt leave on runs without even asking where he's going.  
  
Matt grins and Bee goes and they get set up with his laptop, on the living room floor--Matt doesn't deserve to sit on furniture, so he sits on the floor, and they sit next to him, squeezing his hand every now and then--with Netflix on. Bee puts on a documentary about slave tattooing, and it's fascinating and wonderful and makes Matt want a tattoo collar of his own.  
  
Maybe someday he'll deserve that. For now, as his stomach starts to feel hollower and hollower, Matt's content. He'll survive this punishment, and he got to go to Dad's grave once in his life, and Bee's right, Dad wouldn't hate him. Not love him anymore, maybe, but not hate him.  
  
He's going to be so good, Foggy will let him become a lawyer. And then Matt will be the greatest lawyer in the world, and Dad won't be quite so disappointed with him. Matt could die happy right there and then, that Christmas. It's his favorite since his personhood was severed from him.

\--

Foggy feels terrible.  
  
He's had weird, shitty Christmases before, but that was usually Rosalind-induced, or because Anna and Dad were fighting, or because Candace was being a brat. But this time, it's Foggy who's the asshole who fucked everything up. He gave Matt a present that made him _cry_ , that made him go into a sobbing flashback, and he feels like he's rot, he's malaria.  
  
Foggy hates this so much, but as he climbs into the car and tells Anna, "We need to get to the nearest place that sells kneeling pads," he knows he can at least make up for some of it.  
  
She starts driving. "Why," Anna asks him slowly, "Do we need to go there?"  
  
"I gave Matt his dad's boxing robe for Christmas and he started crying and didn't stop for half an hour, I need to go get him a less shitty present to make up for it," Foggy says in one breath, frantic.  
  
Anna looks at him, and in that particular long-suffering look she appears older than he's ever seen her before. "Foggy," she says with a sigh, "What possessed you to think that was a good thing to spring on him as a surprise?"  
  
Foggy frowns. "I just--I thought, hey, it's his _dad's_ , and if Dad died I'd want something of his, and Matt didn't have anything of his dad's."  
  
Anna sighs. "Yes," she says as they pull out and she holds up a finger in the _wait_ gesture, and taps to activate Siri on her phone. "Siri, what's the nearest shop that sells kneeling pads that is open today?"  
  
"Paggette's Slave Accessories and Necessities is open today, and is five miles from your current location."  
  
"Thanks. Siri, give me directions to Paggette's Slave Accessories and Necessities."  
  
As Anna starts to follow the directions, she glances at Foggy. "Foggy," she says, "While that was a good thought, you should have discussed it with him beforehand. You don't know if Matt's father was a good one to begin with. You don't know if Matt would find having physical reminders of him around painful, and even if he appreciates it, of course it would bring back strong emotions. I can't smell Chanel's number five perfume without crying, because my bubbe wore it all the time."  
  
Foggy opens his mouth and then shuts it. Shit. "I didn't think it would make him---cry and then have a flashback, and, and freak out like that."  
  
Anna sighs. "I know you don't understand parental or grandparent grief, Foggy," she says gently. "But in the future, don't go wading in those waters without asking Matt first if he'd like to swim."  
  
Foggy thinks about it. Anna's right; Foggy doesn't even know any of his grandparents. Dad's parents are not allowed around the children, and so can't come to any Nelson clan events. Anna's parents are so distant he can't even remember their names without looking them up. Rosalind has never once mentioned her parents.   
  
He winces, and feels incredibly stupid. But he just wanted to give Matt a real Christmas, a good Christmas, and then Anna says, "And why would giving Matt a kneeling pad be a good gift?"  
  
"It was on the wishlist I asked him to make," Foggy explains. "I wasn't going to get it for him because, well, it's a fucking kneeling pad, I don't--I'm not a dick--but now it's the only thing I can get him that I can be absolutely sure he'll _like_."  
  
"Well, alright," Anna says.  
  
The rest of the drive is in absolute silence.  
  
\--  
  
The store looks very, very expensive. Foggy looks at it askew as he walks in, Anna following him, and there's something weird about the mannequins in the glass display cases, just inside—  
  
Because they're not mannequins at all. They're slaves, posed to show off clothes and collars and contraptions of leather, buckle, zipper and lace, Foggy realizes as one of them turns slowly, her eyes blank and emotionless. He looks at her, and then the rest, and his mouth goes dry with fear.   
  
Fuck. What kind of a place _is_ this?  
  
Well, whatever it is, he's here for one thing, and he turns to find an exquisitely dressed woman—a slave—wearing a golden metal collar, metal braided around her neck, and a dress that shows more of her shoulders, sides, breasts and legs than any other Foggy's ever seen right in front of him.   
  
She says, voice bright and cheerful, “What can I help you with, sir?”  
  
Foggy draws back a bit. She sounds like Matt. “I—uh, I'm here looking for kneeling pads,” he says, swallowing. “Where are they?”  
  
“Right over here, sir,” she says, and steps backwards on her high heels, gesturing with one arm.   
  
The end of her arm doesn't have a thumb. In fact, neither of her hands do. Foggy looks at it, and then to where she's pointing. There are stacks and stacks of what look to him like very wide seat cushions, mostly. Some of them are leather, some are velvet, and a couple are fleece or corduroy. They come in different patterns and sizes. Foggy looks at them, and spies one that's red and leather and looks big and squishy.  
  
“This one also comes with a variety of cushion covers, sir,” the slave-assistant says brightly. Foggy can see her nipples through her dress uniform. He tries not to look.  
  
Foggy turns back and sees that there are different covers, and he grabs a couple in different textures. “Okay,” he says. “Uh—where do I check out?”  
  
“If you don't want any other products, then here, sir,” she says, and backwards-walks over to a cashier's stand, and beeps the covers and the pad. It comes to a surprising amount, but Foggy refuses to care. It's for Matt, and money is worth so much less than he is.  
  
She smiles, and recites as if from a script, “The warranty for all products lasts up to one year. We cannot guarantee that all products will stand up to continued or advised-against use, and any damage incurred to a slave due to improperly using, inserting, lubricating, cleaning, or sizing products is not the liability of Paggette's Slave Accessories and Necessities. Paggette's thanks you for your kind transaction, and welcomes you on any future visits. Please feel free to bring your slave for trying-out products, and have a wonderful day. Merry Christmas, sir.”  
  
Foggy turns and leaves, taking his bag, feeling faint, but determined.   
  
“Hey,” he says to Anna, who's staring at the slaves in the display cases with a look of slowly dawning horror. “Let's—I should stop by somewhere before I go back, get us some dinner. I'm not making Matt cook tonight.”  
  
She blinks, and says, “That's a great idea. Let's get out of here.”  
  
\--  
  
Matt sat on the floor, and sipped water. His stomach was empty and cramping, and it was already starting to hurt. But he wasn't hungry; hungry was wanting food, desiring food, and just because his body craved something didn't mean _he_ did. That was how he'd slide around Foggy's rule of eating three meals a day—Foggy had said that the rule of 'you don't have to eat if you're not hungry' overruled it, and Matt wasn't hungry, and wouldn't be.  
  
It was a stretch, he knew, but desperate times called for desperate measures. It was time for him to regain some of his self-control, anyway. He'd been slipping so much since he was owned by Foggy and punished—ignored, not punished, Foggy hadn't meant to punish him—for over a month straight, and this would help him. It would rebuild his self-discipline, and ensure that he wouldn't be so ungrateful and stupid again, _crying_ because his owner had gotten him a beautiful gift.  
  
Foggy came in, with a bag that rustled like expensive plastic. Matt sniffed, and Foggy smelled like a slave-shop—all leather and velvet and the patented antiseptic they put on most corporate working slaves before they went to work, to ensure they couldn't pass on any viruses or bacteria to free people they interacted with.   
  
Was Foggy _serious_ when he'd said he was getting Matt a third present? Just because Matt had been so hideously disobedient earlier? Matt had tried to listen to Foggy's heartbeat when he said those things, but he'd been distracted and too panicked to pay much attention.  
  
“Hey,” Foggy said brightly. “Anyway, this was on your wishlist, so here—and, um, I'm just getting this for you because I think you'll like it, not because I mean anything else, and you don't ever have to use it, if you don't want to, or it could just be a regular seat cushion or a pillow or something. Here you go,” and he held out the bag.  
  
Matt took it, and gently removed—  
  
A kneeling pad. A beautiful, soft kneeling pad, thick and good for long-term kneeling, the exact kind Matt had wanted. And with covers, too, covers of crushed velvet and buttery suede and satin and textured plastic that made it easier to be still, that created traction.   
  
_Oh_.   
  
Matt held it, and said softly, “Thank you, Foggy, thank you so much,” and kissed his owner's hand, and felt a little like he'd just heard a building burn to ashes.  
  
No wonder he'd misinterpreted Foggy so much. No wonder even _Summer_ , who could read anyone like a book, hadn't understood him.   
  
Foggy was completely, unutterably incomprehensible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from Jeanann Verlee's "Communion", here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/113180666949/fypoetry-jeanann-verlee-performs-communion


	102. clean and bleed, bleed and clean

Foggy spent the rest of Christmas with Matt.  
  
Bee went back to Dad's around dinner-time, hugging Matt and telling Foggy, "He's fine now," and leaving without a backwards glance. He looked at them as they went, still skinny, but much more like a normal skinny person and not someone from a picture of famine victims. He felt a little prickle of warmth in his chest from seeing that at least he'd done some good in the world. At least they were free, and eating, and gaining weight.   
  
Then he looked back at Matt, who was holding the kneeling pad, and had kissed his hands, and now was tracing it, a look on his face like he'd just seen a ghost. Then Matt put it down, and slipped the crushed velvet case on it, and smiled, and all was right with the world again.   
  
\--  
  
Matt couldn't quite begin his self-imposed punishment on Christmas, because Foggy had bought sandwiches and sushi and salads, and it would be ungrateful and disobedient to not eat them, so Matt ate slowly, enjoying each bite, and then he and Foggy watched the first of the _Alexander Farragut_ movies.  
  
As it turned out, they were beautiful movies, with soft soundtracks modeled from classical music Matt was familiar with, and could talk to Foggy about, at least in some of the more visual scenes. Foggy described everything extensively, adding in details like 'the prosecutor has this fucking douchey face, you can tell he's evil just from it' and 'she totally just glanced at the cop with these huge Bambi eyes'.  
  
It turned out to be a rather gripping tale of a fight against a corrupt, violent legal system, a suspenseful, cerebral movie, with what Foggy said were muted colors and a great deal of dialogue, and when at the end the mother of six children, Anna Mae, was declared not guilty and exited the courthouse, and Foggy spoke quietly about how Farragut's face had 'just the tiniest release of tension, and the small smile breaking through his composure', Matt found himself grinning uncontrollably.  
  
"See?" Foggy said. "It's totally awesome. This one isn't even anywhere near as good as the rest, and there's, like, eleven."  
  
"It was very good, Foggy," Matt offered up. "You said you watched them when you were a child, originally?"  
  
"Oh, yeah," Foggy said, and leaned into Matt. They were both sitting on the floor, Matt kneeling on the pad and Foggy against the couch. "I got into one when I was a kid at Rosalind's for the weekend, and she didn't leave me with anything to do, so I got into her stash of DVDs and put this one on by pure chance. I thought it was really boring until they got to the scene with the fire."  
  
Matt nodded. Anna Mae had ushered her children outside before setting fire to her home, with her violent, disturbingly sexually predatory brother-in-law inside. It had set off most of the plot.  
  
"And then she got back from her stupid call and watched the rest with me," Foggy said, a little wistful. "It was one of the nicest memories I had with her. Dad was furious, he said it was way too adult a movie for a seven-year-old, but that had the opposite effect, I watched them every weekend at Rosalind's after he and her had the fight.   
  
"They made me realize being a lawyer wasn't just boring paperwork, it was like--like fighting, but without using your fists, you know? They made me realize I could use all my debate team and good English class grades to do awesome stuff. I could really be like him, all composed and crisp and smart and respected. I could be amazing."  
  
Matt smiled. Foggy's idealism was so, so cute. It made Matt want to protect Foggy even more. But Matt had to make sure Foggy knew he already was amazing and intelligent.  
  
"Sometimes I wish Rosalind hadn't, though," Foggy said suddenly. "Watched them with me, I mean. I wish she had just--picked a decision and stuck with it. Because you know, she gave me up as a kid? Kicked Dad out of the house with me in his arms and said she was done, he wasn't coming back."  
  
Matt made a soft noise of sympathy, and leaned into Foggy.   
  
"And then later on, after Dad had found Anna, she suddenly showed up again and said she'd sue for full custody if he didn't let her visit me. I guess it pissed her off that Dad found someone else, that she didn't have that hold over him anymore. God. It's so fucked up," Foggy said.   
  
"I told Miriam--my therapist, I mean--a bit about it and _she_ agreed it was totally fucked up. It's--I wish she had just fucking left me alone. Because sometimes she'd do normal mom stuff like that, watch movies with me and tell me about all the unrealistic parts, and then she'd do horrible shit like take me to some weird-ass nutritionist and try to get me to stop eating normal breakfast and lunch, and eat these protein bar things instead, because she thought I was going to get fat--and if she had just left me the fuck alone, I wouldn't have had to deal with her.   
  
"You know, you're the first person that's ever really stood up to her and won? That I know of?" Foggy said, twisting so his face was pointed at Matt. "Anna and Dad argued with her a lot but she always got some concession. She always got at least some of what she wanted, or she'd agree to stop doing something, and find some new way to do it anyways.   
  
"She used to literally lock me in a room with nothing except my homework when I was a kid, if I was visiting her, until I did it. She still buys me clothes that are, like, three sizes too small. And gym memberships and bullshit like that. I never--I don't get why she had to focus on all that," Foggy sounded pained.   
  
"I don't get why she couldn't just pick being mean or being nice, and sometimes she was _really_ nice. She took me out to this steak place whenever I got all A's, and she sometimes would sit with me and go over my debate prep with me so I'd get it really right, and she bought me a really nice laptop for high school and paid for my driver's ed and all my college expenses.   
  
"I don't get her. She would be so fucking nasty to me for no reason, and then she'd buy me a new MacBook that cost, like, a thousand dollars."  
  
Matt thought about how to respond; the gap called for one. "There's nothing wrong with your body, or health," he offered up. "Your heartbeat and blood pressure are all normal. And even if they weren't, I'd be happy to be your service slave, Foggy," he said, and leaned a little bit of his weight into Foggy, so they would cuddle a bit.  
  
Foggy sighed. "Thanks. I just--sorry, wow, that's some heavy shit, I should be talking about that in therapy."  
  
"I don't mind, Foggy," Matt murmured. It was very good information, and offered a lot more of a complete understanding of Rosalind Sharpe. "I like listening to your voice."  
  
Strangely enough, it didn't feel like a pre-prepared line this time. Matt had said that so often, he was surprised to realize that this time, he meant it. He liked Foggy's voice, and having things described to him, and being spoken to.  
  
Foggy laughed, and hugged Matt. "Good, I never know if I'm just coming off as a total chatterbox to you."  
  
Matt smiled. "Only a little," he teased very, very carefully, and suddenly went cold, but then all Foggy did was laugh, sounding pleased, and Matt relaxed. He'd judged right, not been disrespectful.  
  
And then Matt knew what to say about Rosalind Sharpe. "If she ever comes to bother you again, I'm happy to ward her off," he said quietly. "I did have bodyguard training. I know how to get rid of unwanted guests."  
  
Foggy grinned. "Thanks, Matt," he said, and kissed Matt's cheek right as Matt had turned his head to burrow more into Foggy's shoulder--  
  
And Foggy's kiss landed on his mouth. Matt blinked and shut his eyes and went still.

\--

Foggy realized just a _microsecond_ after the kiss landed what he'd done, and jerked violently away, topping backwards onto the floor.  
  
"Shit!" he said. "Fuck--Matt--I'm sorry--"  
  
Matt blinked, and opened his eyes again, and looked perfectly calm. But when it came to Matt, that didn't actually mean all that much.  
  
"Foggy?" he asked, sounding concerned.  
  
"Yeah," Foggy said, hoping he hadn't sent Matt into a fucking _flashback_. Jesus Christ. What the fuck was wrong with him? He hadn't meant to do that at all--  
  
Matt turned, and moved as if he was going to move closer to Foggy, and Foggy looked at Matt's feet because his toes curled if he was scared--  
  
And they weren't. And Matt's face looked fine. Foggy swallowed. Maybe he hadn't really hurt Matt. "I didn't mean to do that," he blurted out. "I didn't--shit, I wasn't gonna--the no-sex rule still applies!"  
  
Matt looked a little confused. "I know, Foggy," he said softly. "I--it was a kiss. That's not sex."  
  
Foggy blinked, and felt baffled instead of just guilty and scared for Matt. What--did Matt not _know_ the significance of being kissed on the mouth? What?  
  
"I don't think I know what you mean by that," Foggy said slowly. "I--um--Matt, are you okay?"  
  
"Yes, Foggy," and was that Foggy's imagination or did Matt look very faintly irritated by the question for a second. "I--being kissed isn't the same thing as being used. I don't mind kissing. It's not negative stimuli."  
  
"Oh," Foggy said, and tried to think about that. Matt really _did_ seem to like platonic kissing, and that made some sense. But what about the romantic connotation?   
  
Foggy had the sudden, sinking feeling that Matt thought romance or love or something was for _people_ and therefore not him, and thus wouldn't get why he wasn't kissing Matt's mouth anytime soon. Shit.   
  
"Okay," he said slowly. "I--um--Matt--okay, so you didn't mind that? Even though, uh, that's the sort of thing, um, couples do? But we're not a couple, you don't owe me anything, it's fine, it's all okay."  
  
Matt had that fleeting little facial twitch of annoyance again, and Foggy wondered if he should bring it up. He decided against it.   
  
"Yes, Foggy," Matt said, and smiled a little bit. "Of course not. I'm okay. I don't mind. Everything is fine," he soothed, and Foggy realized that he was the one scrambled away, heart thudding like a racehorse, freaked the fuck out.  
  
"Okay," Foggy said eventually. "Then--uh--I'm going to go make popcorn, and then the next one? Unless you're too tired?"  
  
Matt shook his head. "I'm okay, Foggy," he said quietly, and Foggy got up off the floor, knees wobbly and difficult to stand on, and made himself make popcorn and think about what happened. Matt was okay, and he was okay, and he hadn't broken his trust. Thank God. Today had been enough of an emotional upheaval for both of them. Foggy couldn't live with himself if he fucked things up even more.  
  
After the second movie, which Matt seemed to like, too, about Alexander Farragut defending a man in prison from his death sentence, Foggy realized it had gotten colder in the apartment. Their heat didn't work as well at night, and he turned to look at Matt, who was half-pressed against him, and seemed perfectly fine. He hadn't taken one kernel of popcorn, yet, though, which struck Foggy as a little strange.  
  
"Did you want to do one more? The next one is kind of--um. It's the one about Farragut defending a pair of sisters, and they're both charged with, um, prostitution, so the threat if he loses is enslavement instead, so if that sounds too--heavy--then we can skip it."  
  
Matt blinked. "I'm okay, Foggy," he said.  
  
"Okay," Foggy said, and then, "Hey, are you cold too?"  
  
Matt nodded, and rose, and came back with his new blanket, holding it and rubbing his fingers over it over and over. Foggy grinned to see Matt liking it.  
  
He plugged it in, and frowned as he felt the dial. Foggy realized that while there were little nocks on it that he could feel, Matt couldn't feel the numbers, because they were smooth plastic.  
  
"Uh," he said, and went over, gently touching Matt's fingers in the process of getting to the dial. He laid his hand over Matt's as he twisted it to 'OFF'. "That's 'off', and then if you twist it this much, to this nock--" and he twisted it to the first one-- "It's '1', and then they go up to '7', though I don't know what actual number temperature it is? Probably it's in the manual."  
  
Matt nodded. "Thank you, Foggy," he murmured, kissed Foggy's finger--his lips so _soft_ , lascivious, Foggy wanted to kiss him--and turned it to '6', and draped it over himself.  
  
"Okay, as fun as the floor life is, let's--c'mon, couch," Foggy coaxed, sitting down. "Way better to cuddle on."  
  
Matt smiled, and they moved so that they were both lying down on the couch, feet in the middle, legs entangled, each with a blanket on top of them, and Foggy switched on the movie.   
  
By the time there was the dramatic courthouse scene, with the vicious, misogynistic female prosecutor snarling about moral degeneracy and the necessity of slavery to control wayward women and useless drains on society, Foggy looked over to find Matt completely asleep, head on his kneeling pad, hands twitching on the blanket, face peaceful.  
  
Foggy smiled. Matt was so, so beautiful, and lovely, and perfect. There was nobody else for Foggy, not anymore. Why would he want anyone else when he could have this--his feet extra-cozy under the weighted, warming blanket, his legs curled up with Matt's strong, muscles legs, looking at him in the light of one of his favorite movies, and feeling so completely content?   
  
Foggy turned back to the movie. This was a very different, very new Christmas. His first away from Dad's, actually. Even when he'd had to fly back for it, he'd always come back to Dad's house for Christmas, and now he was here instead--at _home_. He'd only opened two presents today, and he hadn't heard Candace's happy squeals or seen Dad and Anna get goopy and mushy with each other over their nerdy presents for each other.  
  
Foggy regretted nothing. Matt was more than worth it all--just to see him sleeping, warm and safe and comfortable, not scared of Foggy or of being kissed was the best Christmas present Foggy could have ever had.  
  
He fell asleep like that too, and that night, Foggy dreamed of kissing Matt in bed, neither of them undressing, safe and okay. Matt laughed, and teased him, and in the dream Foggy knew that they would get to stay like that forever if they wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from the movie 'Gone Girl'. (It's an inherently misogynistic movie, but an entertaining mess all the same.)


	103. he said 'it's all in your head', I said 'so's everything'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for disordered eating.

Matt woke up hungry.  
  
It was a sensation that ached in him, sharp, and Matt smiled into his kneeling-cushion as he rose to awareness. It was familiar, and he knew it was just the start of his punishment, his refining of self-discipline. It was him ensuring that he'd be better for the new year, a cleansed and re-tuned slave.  
  
He awoke, and realized he and Foggy were tangled up together, sleeping on the couch as one, and lay there quietly, thinking to himself. He knew that the pain would make him better; all pain was a lesson, and all lessons made you better. And the lesson he had to learn that no matter how sweet _Foggy_ was, no matter how much _Foggy_ wouldn't punish him, that still changed nothing in the grander scheme of things.   
  
Matt was a slave, and had to maintain himself. He couldn't afford to slip into a permanently comfortable, complacent state; he couldn't get acclimatized to all of this loveliness. He couldn't get _used_ to anything--not sleeping in a bed his owner never touched, not this warm, heavy blanket, not hot showers, not being allowed to train alone without putting on a show, not being allowed to talk to Bee, not classes or homework or Braille books. Not food.  
  
Matt realized with a jolt of horror that he'd been getting _soft_ , weak and stupid and overfed, a pig ripe for the slaughter. God. Foggy was not going to ruin him, he thought a little viciously. He refused to be like the tattooed, mutilated, heavily scarred pets of Master Robert's, the ones that ended up with cutlets carved from their thighs when Master Robert forced him to cook and serve human meat to the other slaves, because wasn't that what they were anyway, just meat for the butcher--  
  
Matt silently heaved, and stopped himself, burrowing under the blanket. God. _Christmas presents_ , for him. No wonder he was being such a fucking disobedient little slut. He was spoiled beyond measure. Even Summer, who was the pinnacle of doll-ness, wasn't spoiled like this, with being treated like--  
  
Like a person. Which Matt had gotten far too comfortable with. He even liked standing up in public when waiting with Foggy now, instead of hearing the song his knees sang, reminding him of where he belonged.  
  
Shit. Shit and hellfire and damnation, goddammit, Matt had truly fucked himself over with this owner.   
  
A small part of him wondered if it wasn't better this way, becoming just what Foggy wanted, comfortable and happy, and Matt ruthlessly quashed it. Fuck that. He was supposed to be _strong_ , not _happy_. He was supposed to be a point of pride, not an embarrassment to slaves everywhere. He was supposed to _earn_ what he got through being good, not being indiscriminately rewarded, even from bad behavior like crying over a present.   
  
Matt felt a low, cold rage at himself for how he'd conducted himself, how he'd humiliated himself, and breathed in and out. Alright. Now he'd identified the problem, and had a solution.   
  
He would just have to make these days until New Year's _hurt_.

\--

That day, Foggy went over to Dad's to thank Anna and to see his family.

It felt weird, but he got inside, took off his shoes, obediently petted Caligula for a minute, and then looked up to see Candace sitting on the stairs, looking miserable and mussed.

"Foggy," she said, and Foggy took a deep breath, feeling an unpleasant mix of guilt and not-guilt, like curdled milk in bad coffee.

"Candycane," he offered up, and she got up and walked over. He hugged her, and said, "You're still my sister, and I love you, and I'm still not happy with you, and you're still not allowed to be around Matt at all."

She sniffled, and sighed, and stepped back. She was taller than him, but was so hunched over that she didn't really look it right there and then.

"Foggy," she said. "I didn't--you didn't come home for Christmas."

Foggy shrugged. "Yeah, I had my own, with Matt. Were Anna and Dad still all goopy and gross?"

Candace laughed. "Yeah, oh my god. She got him some heart-shaped back pillow, and he got her--you're gonna love this--he renewed her subscription to _The International Journal of Abnormal Psychology_ and got her a stress ball shaped like Sigmund Freud."

"Oh, god," Foggy said, and gave the obligatory shudders. "I bet they kissed for, like, an hour."

"Try _two_. I had to practically pry them apart with a crowbar so that I could hug Dad for getting me what he got me."

"What'd he get you?"

Candace grinned, bouncing up and down. "He got me the money to get my nose ring!"

Foggy blinked, and smiled slowly. "The one you've wanted since you were thirteen?"

"Yeah, that one! And now I'm going to go get it tomorrow!"

Foggy laughed. "That's great, Candy," he said, and hugged her. "I'm glad. What did Anna get you?"

"Mom got me a pouch that goes over my shoulder, so when Caligula wants me to carry him, I can put him in the pouch and not get all clawed," Candace said, and then her smiled dimmed a bit. "Your presents are still here."

"Yeah, and let me get mine for you and Anna and Dad," Foggy said, and headed up to his room to get them. Caligula followed him, meowing loudly.

"You miss Matt?"

Caligula meowed again.

"Yeah, I know, he's great," Foggy told Caligula, and got the presents. "Anna and Dad are here?" he asked Candace.

"Yeah, in the living room," she said, and they went over into it, Caligula grumpily following them.

"Hey, son," Dad said, and hugged Foggy tight. Foggy hugged him back.

"You made your sister cry," he accused Foggy. "Don't do that again."

"She made Matt freak out so badly he had flashbacks," Foggy sniped back, and then winced. That didn't really feel like something he should just be spreading around, but he couldn't quite take it back.

"Edward," Anna said, exasperated. "Stop trying to protect her from consequences of her actions."

Foggy pulled back, and looked at Dad, and at Candace, and Anna. He loved them, he still did, but there was...something different about this, about them.

He had somewhere else to be, he realized sharply. He wasn't really so dependent on them anymore. Granted, he still needed help paying for groceries and rent, and probably for things like taxes and getting around outside of New York, but in a sense, he felt like he had suddenly, firmly detached, like even if things went to hell, he'd be fine. He had his own home, his own loved one who wasn't tied up in them.

He'd had his own Christmas. Foggy felt, intensely, like he was finally a real adult in a way he'd never been before, and it took him a second to breathe and accept that weight.

"I'm not going to apologize or feel bad for what I did," Foggy said, settling back on his heels. "I came here to swap presents, and to say I hope you guys had a good Christmas, too. Here's my presents to you all," and he handed them around.

Anna smiled as she unwrapped hers; a book of Lithuanian baking recipes, which Foggy knew she didn't already know. Dad got a sweater, bright and almost glitzy, with a loud 'WEIRDEST DAD EVER' print, surrounded by passed-out drunk reindeer. He laughed and immediately put it on. Candace got the DVD of that new play about the alternate-reality version of Sherlock Holmes, where Lovecraftian monsters had enslaved all of humanity and Holmes was a villain. She grinned and hugged him.

"Here are ours, to you," Anna said, and pointed to three presents, still under the tree.

Foggy reached down and found them. From Candace, he'd gotten a body pillow stuffed with lavender, chamomile, and other sleepy-time herbs and scents, to help him sleep even better. From Dad, he'd gotten a book entitled 'Weirdest Legal Cases in History'. And from Anna, he'd gotten--

Foggy grinned widely as he read the book's cover. 'A Brief Exploration of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, for Those That Do Not Have It'.

The book was very, very slim, and Anna said, warningly, "Take everything it says with a grain of salt, and be sure to remember that you're not Matt's therapist."

"I know!" Foggy protested. "But--god, this is great, now I can maybe understand him a bit more."

He reached down and hugged Anna, too. Her hair smelled like roses, and he was glad of how strong and solid she felt.

"And there's one more, from all three of us," Anna said, and handed him something soft. Foggy opened it up, and _grinned_ hugely.

It was a yarn drum, with little velcro pockets to hold in and organize hooks, darning needles, and scissors. It would make it way easier to keep his current project organized, and he made a loud, involuntary noise of pure joy.

"Thank you," he said, smiling. "God. This is great."

Candace was still watching him, and he took a deep breath in, and then out. "No word from Rosalind?"

"A drunken, incoherent message, from which I've gathered she might be coming to the New Year's party," Anna said, with an eyeroll. "Which, by the way--Candace, tell him."

"I'm going to, um, Stacey's for New Year's," Candace explained. "So Matt can come here and so can you and stuff. Because you don't trust me around him."

"Because you effectively proved you're not trustworthy around him," Foggy said, and breathed in and out. "Look--Candace--do you really not get it?"

She sighed. "I get that you're mad at me, and I get that what I did was sexual harassment, or poaching, kind of. But lots of people--I dunno. I never thought slaves cared about that kind of stuff. It wasn't like I was going to hit him or anything. I was just gonna kiss him under the mistletoe."

Foggy resisted the urge to scream. _Matt probably would prefer being hit,_ he thought darkly, and it was true. Matt thought having his fingernails ripped out was better than being raped.

Instead he said, calmly, "And so I guess it's fine when _men_ try to do that to _women?_ "

"No, but--Foggy--look, isn't that what he's _for_?"

Foggy leaned back, and groaned out loud, rubbing one hand on his face. "Candace--"

"No, listen to me!" she snapped. "I get that he's yours and he's expensive and you didn't want him anyway, and I get that he's kind of your friend, but look--everyone knows that there's a reason some people end up as slaves and others don't!"

"Yeah, it's called bad luck, or shitty parents," Foggy retorted. "Or, hell, being falsely accused of shoplifting, or not being able to afford a good enough lawyer."

"So you're telling me that--that it's just, what, it's just fucking chance that he ended up with a collar? That it's just--it just happens, there's no rhyme or reason?"

"Oh, there's reasons," Foggy said darkly. "Mostly, what happens is that someone is awful and shitty and decides to hurt someone else, and they get away with it because our fucking broken legal system lets them. It's not Matt's fault, or any other slave's fault."

Candace looked at him, and then away. "I can't believe that the world is like that," she said, finally. "I can't--I can't live in a world that's that bleak, and cold, and cruel."

"But you're willing to live in a world where all of that keeps on happening, all of the--the--the people being raped and beaten and having their thumbs fucking cut off--all of that, but it's, what, it's their fault? How is that any better?" Foggy asked, incredulous.

"Look, I _get_ that ever since you went to college you went sort of super, super preachy and annoying, but this isn't just your normal political bullshit, this is--Foggy, this is nuts, I get that you're mad that I tried to borrow your toys without asking, I remember that we fought over it all the time as kids, but--goddamnit, Foggy, this is crazy. I can't--Matt's not your boyfriend that I tried to fuck, alright? I wasn't going to be 'the other woman', you are seriously overreacting."

"No, Matt's my friend who you were going to forcibly kiss and then probably try to rape," Foggy said, voice going flat and pissed and utterly, utterly done with this. "And if you're done insulting him, I'm leaving."

"What, is that all you're going to do? Just...leave?" Candace shouted, face bright red. "You're just going to do that to me, to your _family_?"

Foggy looked at her, and then at Anna, who looked rather like Sisyphus at that moment. "Hey, Anna, what did you do when people in your family were actively shitty and mean about Dad?"

"I informed them that they could be at minimum civil, or else suffer the lack of my scintillating company," she said.

"Awesome. Hey, Candace, you can be at minimum civil about Matt--by which acknowledging and treating him like a person--or you can suffer the lack of my scintillating company."

He made a mental note to ask Matt, later, what 'scintillating' meant.

She glared at him, and stormed off. Foggy sighed, remembering how in middle school she had done nothing but that, and turned to Dad, who looked too shell-shocked to intervene, and Anna, who looked exasperated at her.

"Thanks for the presents," Foggy said. "If she won't be here, we will for New Year's. It starts at--?"

"Six, though you should probably be here by five," Anna said. "And good on you, Foggy. It took me a longer time to learn how to stand my ground like that."

"Well, someone has to put him first," Foggy said, put on his coat, petted Caligula one more time, and left.

 

 

\--

 

Matt had overestimated his own pain tolerance, he discovered over the next few days.

He knew it fluctuated to some degree with physical pain, and that it was a bit like a muscle in that you exercised it or it atrophied, but he hadn't realized just how bad it had gotten, how low he'd sunk.

That, and he hadn't gone from little food to no food, but from being fed a frankly ludicrous amount of food--food that he got to choose and eat as fast or slow as he pleased, food he was allowed to season and cut however he wanted, food that he was allowed to put away and come back to later--to no food at all.

It hurt. His stomach cramped, his head ached. He drank water, and medicinal tea with sugar, salt, and appetite-stimulating spices, just to twist the knife and keep his blood sugar up to bearable levels. He couldn't afford to have it interfering with his concentration, or him fainting. He couldn't distress Foggy like that.

But it hurt, and the pain was near-constant, his body screaming at him to eat, eat, just a bite of something, just a half an apple or one little sandwich, anything at all.

Matt ate nothing.

The hardest to resist was when he made pancakes and had to taste the batter; the feel of it on his tongue made him full-body shudder in want, hands curling into clawed fists, and Matt had to chant to himself, _you can do this, you can resist this temptation, you can fight this, you are stronger than your desires, you are stronger than your hunger_.

And he was. He stayed strong, and he felt good about himself. He was good, and strong, and had the necessary self-discipline to re-tune himself to what he needed to be. Matt felt at peace with the pain, and it helped drive away his hunger, relocate it to a purely physical craving that he could cleave from himself.

Matt was content, and so, so hungry.

Each night he dreamed about food, and about being hungry. He dreamed about Mistress Janet letting him eat whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, because she appreciated him so much. He dreamed about Mistress Sharon lazily ordering him to go make tiramisu, and eating three slices, and then throwing the rest out because Matt and the pet were both on strict calorie-controlled diets to ensure they never would be anything but beautiful. He dreamed about Master Robert, about how he'd hysterically thought to himself that human meat really _did_ taste like pork, about the sizzle of it.

He dreamed about princessetorte and croissants and eggs Benedict and filet mignon, he dreamed about chicken nuggets and French onion soup and ice cream, back before Stick tainted it. He dreamed about disappearing buns and red pepper soup and chicken tikka masala. Matt dreamed about food, about eating an entire feast-table's worth with his bare hands, and he woke up hungrier each day.

But he didn't break, and he didn't even get too close to it. Each time he felt dangerously close to breaking, when he could tell he was teetering on the edge of losing control and eating something, he knelt on his new cushion and thought about what this was. This was punishment, and it was a well-deserved one.

He thought over and over again until how ungrateful and hideously disobedient, soft and trusting and utterly _imbecilic_ he'd become, and about how he had to do _something_ to regain himself. He thought viciously about how he deserved this, how he really should be in pain more often, about how bad slaves didn't deserve the privileges he'd been so graciously awarded, about how he'd been such a disappointment and what would Foggy say if he knew how angry Matt had gotten at him?

Matt thought and thought, anger at himself building to a crescendo until his head was a cacophony of furious self-loathing and humiliation, so intense he wanted to hit his head on the edge of the countertop until his skull cracked and he could die. He hated it, he _hated_ starving, but he knew it would be over soon.

Bee came over on December twenty-ninth, when Foggy was back doing something at his father's house, and the first thing they said with their tablet when they got in was, "What's wrong with you?"

Matt blinked. "Nothing," he said.

He could feel their eyes look him up and down, left and right. "You're hungry," the robotic voice accused him. "You're really hungry."

Matt shrugged. "I'm not allowed to eat until New Year's."

There was an awkward pause, and then Bee switched to Morse again. [I know Foggy didn't tell you that. He never starved either of us, even a tiny bit.]

"Well, no, but--I've been slipping."

[And being hungry is going to help that?]

"Yes," he snapped, and suddenly Matt realized just how on-edge he felt. Every sound was too loud and too jarring, every texture too scratchy. He could hear the neighbors downstairs with their _stupid_ telenovela, and the cars outside with their loud fucking horns, and Bee's too-fast heartbeat.

Something sounded off about their heart, to Matt. But he refocused, and gathered himself. "Yes, it'll help. I can't slack off."

Bee sounded exasperated. [Oh my god, yes you can, a little bit. Didn't you ever learn to take rest and food and water whenever you could?]

"There comes a point where being spoiled actually starts to negatively affect you," Matt sniped. "I'm at that point."

[That's really not how things work,] they pointed out. [Starving never helped me.]

"You never had baseline training, or good health to begin with," he said irritably. He felt so angry now, but he'd kept it sharply pointed at himself. This was all _his_ fault, after all.

They furrowed their brow. [Yes, I did. What, you think they just let us run wild at the center? I got plenty of conditioning. Not the individual attention you got, and it was a different teaching style, but I had plenty of training. And starving never made me more obedient.]

"So it really never made you give in?" Matt said, arching an eyebrow.

[Oh FUCK YOU,] and they stepped forward, and Matt tensed, pulling back his teeth, wanting to fight, wanting to hit someone or something until all this suffocating rage had drained out of him like pus--

[Fuck you. I gave in because everyone does eventually.]

Matt sighed, and then stopped. "Sorry," he said, because he'd crossed a line. Speaking to a free person like that. "But I need this. I required a lot of focused training, and I've got to keep it up. I can't have it all going to waste."

[You idiot. Eat.]

Matt rolled his eyes, and didn't.

[I'm serious. Eat or--]

"You'll tell Foggy?"

[Fuck you, I'm not a snitch. But. Fuck. Matt, you have to eat.]

"It'll be over soon," he said, and smiled dizzily at the prospect. "Foggy will never have to know. It'll be over soon."

They sighed, and then the two of them switched to making more fun of _Fifty Shades of Grey_ together. Matt assured his growling belly that soon it would all be over, and he'd get to eat again.

It was over the next day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from Fiona Apple's "Paper Bag'.


	104. I always think of the back of her head. I picture cracking her lovely skull, unspooling her brain, trying to get answers

Foggy yawned and stretched out in bed. He'd woken up, changed into sweatpants and a new shirt, and promptly laid back down on the covers. It was too early to be doing anything, but he had therapy in half an hour, and he wanted to laze a bit.  
  
That, and watch Matt.  
  
There was something up with Matt, Foggy knew. He seemed tense and edgy more, somehow, as if anticipating something. And the past few days, he'd taken his coffee black, with no cream or sugar, which was weird. Matt also hadn't eaten much at meals, just given Foggy food or instead curled up in his bed. Foggy hoped he wasn't getting sick, or somehow being upset by all the memories his dad's boxing robe must have brought back.  
  
Foggy watched Matt, curled up under the weighted blanket, listening to something, eyes half-closed.  
  
Matt's stomach growled. Matt didn't move.  
  
Foggy frowned, and watched Matt's face twitch in anger and then curl more to his side, breathing in and out.  
  
"Hey, Matt," he said, after his stomach gurgled again. "You're okay?"  
  
"I'm alright, Foggy," Matt murmured. "I'm not hungry."  
  
"It sure sounds like you are," Foggy said, half-teasing. "When was the last time you ate?"  
  
There was a horrifically long pause. Foggy blinked and sat up, a horrible dread creeping up on him. "Matt? When was the last time you ate?"  
  
Matt swallowed, and said very quietly, "Christmas night."  
  
Foggy's mouth fell open. What-- but that couldn't be--  
  
But--  
  
He tried to remember if Matt had been eating only a _little_ or _nothing_ , and realized with startled horror that he hadn't seen Matt eating at all, he'd just assumed that of course he was, he just was--  
  
Was what?  
  
Foggy didn't even know. He'd just--he'd thought that of course Matt was eating, why was Matt starving--  
  
"Shit, are you getting sick?"  
  
"No, Foggy," and Matt sounded very, very quiet and wretched. "I'm not sick."  
  
"Then--what--what are you doing? Are you--you're starving yourself on _purpose_ , aren't you," Foggy said, sick knowledge curdling in his stomach. "You're--Matt, what the shit?"  
  
Matt swallowed heavily. Foggy saw a haze of crimson creep up in his vision, and realized he was clenching his fists. He felt so angry, he could spit. Matt had been _starving himself_ , Matt had been hurting himself, and Foggy was so fucking done with it.  
  
He realized he should probably go to therapy right there, come back calmer and deal with this rationally, but Foggy was abruptly too tired of being calm and reasonable about all this crazy bullshit, and he couldn't just leave Matt alone. No, no, he had to make sure he _understood_ , he had to get the point across, he couldn't just let Matt hurt himself, he couldn't bear the thought of having to protect Matt from _himself_ as well. No. He was done.  
  
"That's fucking it," Foggy said. "That's--fuck this, get dressed, you're coming to therapy with me, Miriam will--she'll know something to say, she'll help me--fuck-- _Matt_ ," he groaned, and closed his eyes, leaning back his head, and heard the sounds of Matt instantly getting dressed.  
  
"Ready?" he asked.  
  
Matt's face was a blank, scared mask. But Foggy didn't feel any softer.  
  
"Alright, let's get going," and he yanked on his own boots and coat and hat, wrapped a hand around Matt's wrist when he seemed to be ready to stay there like a statue, and pulled them out of the apartment, feeling like a soup pot boiling over, a grease fire erupting.  
  
Fuck. He couldn't _believe_ this.

\--

Matt felt cold with humiliation as Foggy dragged him into the office after him. His arm was a leash, his wrist limp, his fingers tingling.  
  
It was almost a relief, to know that Foggy _could_ get angry at him, _could_ punish him like a normal owner. But Matt didn't know how Foggy was going to punish him, what the therapist would tell him to do.  
  
Whatever it was, it would hurt, and Matt braced himself calmly, walked along so Foggy didn't have to yank on him and hurt his wrist even more. It throbbed, vaguely, and he kept his face obediently blank and flat as Foggy pulled him into an unfamiliar office, past a male receptionist who was staring, Matt could _feel_ it with an internal flush of shame, and into an office with an unfamiliar woman who smelled like myrrh and stood up, surprised, and said, "Well--Foggy, hello, you're a bit early."  
  
"Yeah. I need--fuck--let me close the door," and Matt's calculations of what Foggy would do to him took a sharp downswing even as he breathed in relief that whatever it was, it wouldn't be so public.  
  
"Anyway--shit--I need help."  
  
"With Matt?"  
  
Matt made himself breathe quietly and unobtrusively, and remain standing, where Foggy had put him. He hoped it would be over soon.  
  
"With--can you--I don't even know where to start," Foggy said, his anger ballooning, filling the room. Matt felt as if he was suffocating, he was so afraid. He'd fucked up, he'd badly fucked up, and he wasn't even sure _why_ Foggy was so angry.  
  
"You have to understand, it's not exactly my job," the woman--Miriam--said gently.  
  
"Please? I need--fuck--I need some help, I can't just--Matt hasn't eaten since Christmas, and it's not because _I_ didn't let him," Foggy said.  
  
There was an awkward pause, and then Miriam said, calmly, "Well, let's start with some explicit communication. Matt, explain what you were doing, and why. Detail your thought process."  
  
That was an order. Matt obeyed, and said quietly and submissively, "I was re-establishing my self-discipline after I realized how much I had been slipping and getting to be...disobedient and, I decided to not...eat until the new year, so as to end this year on a high note."  
  
Foggy's heartbeat was high and furious, stampeding. Matt resisted the urge to cringe.  
  
"Matt," Foggy said, and put his head in his hands.  
  
"Well," Miriam said softly, "As commendable as a dedication to making sure you're as good as you can be for your owner, don't you think it's a little..egotistical to do such a thing without first checking?"  
  
Matt blinked, and swallowed hard as Foggy suddenly snapped, "Fuck--no--don't do that! Don't treat him like that, oh my god. Matt--the thing is--I don't want you to fucking starve yourself! Especially not to make yourself--I dunno, more servile and cringing or whatever! Do you think--I _told_ you about the fucked-up shit Rosalind did to me about food, what is _wrong_ with you, do you think what she did to me was okay?"  
  
What? "What? No, Foggy, that's--those are completely different situations," Matt articulated as fast as he could, trying to salvage this. "I--you were a child, you're a person, that's different--"  
  
He stopped, Foggy's breathing hard and angry, like right before an owner hit him, Matt braced himself--  
  
And Foggy grabbed his hair, gave a strangled scream of frustration, and shouted, "Matt, jesus christ, I don't--I fucking can't with this bullshit! Of course you're a fucking person! Shit, how many times do I have to fucking tell you that! What is so wrong with you that you can't even understand that! You are _exhausting_ to be around sometimes, you know that?"  
  
And something inside of Matt's chest snapped, and the humiliating questions curdled and writhed. Matt felt gutted, and exposed, and furious.  
  
Something clawed at the inside of his skin, tearing it open, the devil free at last, and Matt opened up his mouth and snarled back.  
  
\--  
  
"I have done _nothing_ but try to make you happy," Matt snarled, and Foggy blinked and took a step back. "I have tried, and tried, and nothing I do is good enough, nothing I try works! Nothing I do is good enough for you! _You're_ exhausted?  
  
"I'm fucking tired every single minute from doing everything that I can, every minute of every day, always trying to see what I'm doing and if it's working and what you think and feel and you won't even _tell me the fucking rules_ , you don't even give me orders so I know how to make you happy, and _you're_ exhausted?  
  
"I'm fucking exhausted! I'm not a person and it is exhausting to have to pretend that I would ever want to be one for you! I am so--I try so, so hard, and you don't understand how much I'm worth. If what you want is some stupid, complacent, idiot little bargain-bin piece of trash, then you should just sell me and get one of those instead!"  
  
Foggy realized, belatedly, that his jaw was hanging open, because _holy shit_ , that was _Matt_ , that was him saying what he really meant, that was his beautiful honesty.  
  
And there was Matt, turning white, clapping both hands over his mouth, eyes wide.  
  
"Wow," Foggy said, and felt himself smile a bit. "Wow--I just--Matt," he said, and stepped forward.  
  
Matt flinched, and shook, and Foggy hugged him tightly. "Matt," he said into his shoulder. "I didn't realize you felt like that," he said, anger drained out of him now that he was so jarred. "I had no idea. Shit. Matt, I didn't--I never meant to make you feel like that," he said, and squeezed Matt gently.  
  
Matt was shaking, and Foggy realized unpleasantly that he'd just been a _dick_ to him, yelling at him like that. Shit.  
  
"Hey," he said, fishing for words. "Hey--thanks. Thanks for telling me that, because now, I think--I think we can fix this, now. Let's figure something out. Let's--wow," and Foggy realized that Matt probably wanted to slide down to his knees, given the way they were trembling.  
  
"Let's sit down," he encouraged gently, and stepped over to the couch and sat. Matt instantly sank to his knees, face the scared statue mask, and Foggy made sure to smile at him.  
  
"Okay," Foggy said, and looked up to see Miriam watching them with a baffled expression. "Let's--let's work something out right now. Let's find some common ground."  
  
\--  
  
Matt felt like he was hallucinating.  
  
He didn't understand what was happening. He couldn't figure out why Foggy hadn't yelled back, had stopped and hugged him, wasn't angry any more. His own anger had dissipated the instant he'd realized, with a sinking dread, that he'd just told his owner to _sell him_ \--and not just his owner, but the best of all his owners, and yet. And _yet_.  
  
He was still there. Foggy suddenly wasn't so angry anymore. He hadn't hit him or yelled at him or even taken away any privileges.  
  
A part of Matt was steadily more and more afraid the longer nothing happened, feeling like a boulder was taking so long to come down and crush him that it had to be all the bigger for it, but another part of him was--relieved? Hopeful? Joyful?  
  
He didn't understand. His mind felt like it was floating away, his body across the room. Matt felt like he was curled into the corner of this therapist's office, listening to the scene as if it were a movie, not experiencing it.  
  
"Matt? Can you--please tell me," Foggy said gently, "I don't think I understand what you meant when you said that it was for--self-discipline. I don't want you to hurt yourself."  
  
Matt reached for the words, feeling flattened, squeezed, dried-out. An orange peel, discarded. "Six days isn't a very long time to be hungry, Foggy," he tried to explain. "Not for a slave. It wouldn't have damaged your property in the long run."  
  
He heard Foggy suck in a sharp breath. "Matt--fuck--give me a minute."  
  
Then, after an agonizing pause, Foggy said, slowly, "Matt, even if it won't injure you in the long-term--when I say I don't want anyone to hurt you, including you, I mean even something that isn't dangerous, but just that it hurts. I'd be angry if you couldn't eat for even just one day, because that's not right. Does that make sense?"  
  
Matt forced himself to nod. It did, and he couldn't work out why he'd thought that it would be fine in the first place. He felt dizzy, and every day he hadn't eaten, the mental static had gotten louder and thicker, like wading through sludge.  
  
"Okay," Foggy said. "Shit. Um. Miriam--is there something I could--what would you advise me to say, or, um, do--and not for--I mean, pretend Matt's just, I dunno, my friend. What should I say?"  
  
Matt heard her say, vaguely, as if underwater, "I've found that with patients who are struggling to support loved ones, respecting autonomy is a necessary but difficult step."  
  
"Even with--shit like that? With literally starving yourself?" Foggy sounded so distressed, and angry again. Matt hated himself.  
  
"You can express your emotions without attempting to dictate another's actions," Miriam said, her voice mild and neutral. "Though this might be a bit more of a delicate balance in this situation."  
  
"Yeah. Shit. Okay, Matt--let me put it like this, alright? I--hell. You're good training for contract law, you know that? But let me say it like this. I don't like that you hurt yourself. I really don't, it makes me really--angry at everyone, and at you, but--and I mean this too--but it's _your_ body, not mine, so you--I guess that if you really want to hurt yourself, then I just have to suck it up and deal."  
  
Matt felt his mouth hang open, shocked. He didn't--he couldn't--Foggy's completely insane system of morals extended _that_ far?  
  
"But please, please don't not eat. If you're sick, or really not hungry, or too full, or--normal reasons, but please, please don't _starve yourself_ , Matt, jesus. I can't--I flipped my shit, and I'm gonna work on that, but--please eat. Please don't starve yourself, I'm sorry, I don't want this to happen again."  
  
He didn't understand. It felt like when he'd first started properly learning languages other than English, and had to try to comprehend news broadcasts. He'd catch maybe one word out of ten, and the rest that he scraped together still didn't make sense.  
  
Foggy really was ineffable. But he was being completely honest.  
  
Matt felt his brain stretch out like saltwater taffy.  
  
"And--okay, wow, you're really out of it now, aren't you?" Foggy said quietly. "Really. Okay. Shit, I definitely should not have yelled at you. Fuck. Um. Sorry, Miriam, I'll--I'll email you for when we can next meet, because I've got to get Matt home, this is not safe."  
  
She said something about how he was welcome to come back in with Matt anytime, or she could recommend trainers or therapists suited for working with people and their slaves, and Foggy went stiff with anger again.  
  
And then they were standing up, and moving, and Matt was yet again being tugged on a leash, except this time, it was with his arm tucked into Foggy's elbow, guiding him like he did normally.  
  
Nothing made sense. Matt felt as if the world lay in tatters, the familiar structures burn down. He wanted to go back to the world that he understood, the safety of knowing what he should do--  
  
Except then Miriam's words echoed inside of him. It _had_ been egotistical, inadvertently, to presume that he could decide his own punishments and rewards. It had been selfish, and stupid, and Bee's own exasperated words suddenly sounded inside of his head.  
  
Foggy was like an oasis in the desert. Matt realized, still floating apart from his body, that he should just shut the fuck up and drink what sweet, clear water there was, take what he was given like any good slave, before the sun came and dried it to bone again.

\--

Foggy kept his eyes on Matt as he got them both home. Matt was blank, and flat, and looked completely out of it, brain out to space somewhere.  
  
_Shit_.  
  
He got them into the bedroom, and took off his hat, coat, gloves and boots. Matt obediently took them off too, mechanically.  
  
"Matt," he said gently. "I'm gonna--where's the most comfortable place for you to be right now?"  
  
Matt sank down to kneel on the floor.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Alright then. Foggy looked, and yep, Matt's kneeling pad was in the living room, and he grabbed it and brought it over, and then sat down heavily on his bed.  
  
"Matt," he said. "Here. Here's your--this is for you," and Matt reached out and took it, fingers shaking very faintly.  
  
"Hey," Foggy said, and took a risk. He reached out and tugged on Matt's shoulder, and Matt leaned backwards with his hand as he pulled Matt to rest his head a little on Foggy's thigh.  
  
Matt breathed in and out softly, face dead. It hurt to look at him like this. Foggy stroked his hair, and Matt full-body shivered, and pitched himself forward to bury his face into Foggy's legs.  
  
"Hey, hey, shh, it's okay," Foggy said. "I'm not gonna hurt you, no punishments, no sex, no selling, I promise. I promise. I'm sorry I yelled at you, that was not--that was not the right way to respond to that situation, I'm sorry, shh," he said, and Matt shivered a bit, and then pulled his face back to say softly,  
  
"I'm so sorry, Foggy, I never meant--I wasn't trying to make you angry, I swear--"  
  
"I know," Foggy said. That part he didn't doubt. "And hey, look--see, I got pissed at you, and I yelled at you and that was not the thing I should have done but I still didn't hit you, believe me now?"  
  
A twitch of skepticism. Alright. Whatever, Rome wasn't built in a day, or a semester. And Foggy knew he was in for the long haul anyway. He'd just have to keep getting better.  
  
"Hey," he said. "So now that you're back, and are you back?"  
  
Matt nodded.  
  
"Okay, good, then can you explain to me what you mean about self-discipline? I definitely didn't get it."  
  
Matt blinked, and explained quietly, "I know that you like it when I'm--soft. And docile. And I'm sorry, I should be focusing on what you want--"  
  
Foggy made a soft noise of encouragement.  
  
"But--I thought--I can't afford to be like that all the time. I can't afford to be so trusting, and, and broken. You say you want me to be safe and it's not safe to get so soft and vulnerable," Matt said, a little anger creeping back into his tone.  
  
Foggy loved it when Matt lost his temper. It was beautiful, like watching a wildfire.  
  
He opened his mouth to explain that it really _was_ safe to be like that around him--  
  
And stopped, and thought about the obedience tests, about the reflexive submission that everyone expected out of Matt all the time, about the fact that cops had the legal right to shoot any disobedient or even 'overly skittish' slaves. He thought, and realized that even if it _was_ safe with him, Matt wasn't safe with other people.  
  
Okay. Well. Shit. But he'd work with that.  
  
"Maybe not all the time," Foggy said, coaxingly. "You're right, I can't make promises on behalf of other people. But I can promise that I will always try to make it so it's safe to relax here a bit, okay? And can you tell me what you mean--why is it exhausting to be around me? What am I doing that's so tiring?"  
  
Matt paused, and looked weary and agonized as he said, muffled into Foggy's thigh, "I don't know what you _want_ from me, I don't know how to make you happy, and every time I try to understand it it makes less sense," his voice breaking at the end.  
  
Foggy put both hands on Matt's head, stroking his soft, silky hair.  
  
"Matt," he said, and almost followed it up with _I don't want anything from you_ , but that wasn't true, and Matt could hear lies. "Matt--ok, let me tell you what I want, then. I want you to eat, and you to make those ridiculously delicious cupcakes, because holy shit, you are the best at making anything I've ever known.  
  
"I want you to make me soup when I'm sick, and let me make you soup when you're sick. I want you to give me Anna's scarf back, she keeps asking about it, I definitely need to return it. I want you to keep looking awesome, and trust me, I know that's practically effortless, and--"  
  
Matt looked so relieved, Foggy kept going.  
  
"I want you to tell me if I'm doing something that scares you or upsets you or pisses you off, okay, because I don't know what's inside your head, I don't know what you're thinking or feeling, and that--that scares me, I'm worried all the time I'm accidentally hurting you and you won't say anything, so I want you to say something. I want you to tell me something, because that way I can stop being a dick to you."  
  
Foggy impulsively bent down and hugged Matt, sliding down on the floor to sit, facing him. Then he kept going, he couldn't stop now, not when he'd gotten momentum.  
  
"I want you to keep being awesome, and when we get to mock trials for real I want you to demolish some motherfuckers, okay, because when you lose your temper--or even when you don't, you're still cool and collected--whenever you verbally eviscerate some dumbass argument it's so great, it's amazing, I want you to keep being better than me at academics, I want you to remind me to study because holy shit, I don't study enough."  
  
Now Matt was almost smiling shyly. Foggy took it as encouragement to keep going.  
  
"And I want you to do things that make _you_ happy. I want you to keep going to the gym and come back all sweaty and grinning because Matt, I love looking at you, I want you to always keep being you, I want to open up the window for you at all hours because you're doing your crazy ninja thing and leaping rooftops in a single bound, and I want to debate _Batman_ with you because your opinions are great, I love that you disagree with me, it's fine to disagree with me all the time."  
  
He hugged Matt on impulse, and said into his shoulder, "I want you to keep doing _you_ \--fucking kneeling pads and all. I want to come home and see you smiling on your bed because it's raining, I want you to tease me and make fun of what a dork I am sometimes, I want you to poke Bee in the ribs and talk to them, I want to watch all the  _Alexander Farragut_ movies with you and all your favorites too, I want you to pet Caligula because he bites people way less when you're around, I want you to talk shit about Rosalind with me, you're hilarious when you're insulting someone--"

And Foggy realized something with a flash of bright light behind his eyelids. No wonder he'd lost his temper so much.  
  
"And _hooooly_ shit, oh _hell_ , now I know why I got so mad, it was--oh, shit, Matt--what you were saying, it reminded me of how Rosalind talked about me, about--it sounded to me like you were saying there was something wrong with _me_ , not just because I really hate it when you're hurt. Wow. Shit. That's--I gotta make a note to tell Miriam about that, that is--wow. I didn't realize I still cared about what she thought. Fuck."  
  
Matt's face had turned to determination, and he spoke up. "There's nothing wrong with you," he said fiercely. "I would never say something like that. There's nothing wrong with you. If she thinks there is, it's just another piece of evidence that she's a terrible mother and doesn't know you at all."  
  
Foggy gaped at him, and surged forward again to hug Matt, tears prickling at his eyes. Of course, Anna had said that sometimes, and Dad sort-of too, but--Anna wasn't his _real_ mom and Dad _had_ to say that, Dad was his _dad_ \--but now _Matt_ said it and that was what Matt's real opinions sounded like.  
  
"Matt," he said, and choking back tears, went on, "I want--you're so strong, and you're so--you're such a good person, you're so kind sometimes, and I want you to keep doing that. You're _so_ strong. I couldn't have lived through half the shit you've lived through, and you're still--you're still so strong. I want you to keep surviving, okay? I want you to keep surviving."  
  
Matt nodded against him. "I promise, Foggy," he said softly. "I will. I promise."  
  
"Oh, god, Matt, and I don't--I don't mean fake it, okay? I don't mean fake being happy, or, or, whatever it was that made you cry that one time. I mean--I just want everything in the world to stop hurting you. I want everything to be okay for you. And I want cuddle parties and movie nights occasionally, I'm not gonna lie to you, you're a great hugger, you put koalas to shame--but only if you want to. I don't--"  
  
Foggy took a second, and thought about how to put it, and something Marci had said once inspired him. "The cuddling equivalent of a pity fuck is so not my idea of a good time. Okay? Only if you want to. Only if you like it."  
  
Matt nodded against him.  
  
"And I want you to protect yourself and, and, take care of yourself. And eat. Let's eat right now, let's order some noodles or something, or, let's cook something together, or you can cook and I can watch and you can tell me about how the idiots on all those cooking shows do it wrong. I want you to eat, and, and I want you to do things that make you happy. What do you want, Matt?"  
  
Matt blinked. "I want to hurt Rosalind Sharpe for hurting you," he said, quietly, a low little spark of hatred on his face. "I want to use her spine as a toothpick as I scrape the remains of her so-called career off my teeth."  
  
That was awful, and gory, and amazing. Foggy loved Matt so much.  
  
"Do you want me to kiss you?"  
  
Matt tilted his head, and very tentatively teased, "You're not gonna kiss me."  
  
"I'm feeling _something_ ," Foggy said, and leaned forward--  
  
And stopped. "Can I--no sex, ever, this is not a sex thing--can I kiss you on the lips, Matt? Would you like it if I did? You can say no, all I'll do instead is kiss you on the forehead or something, I promise."  
  
Matt bit his beautiful red lip, and nodded. Okay then.  
  
Foggy kissed Matt on the lips, and he relaxed into it, eyes closing.  
  
"Good? You're still with me?"  
  
Matt nodded. "Thank you, Foggy," he whispered, and reached for Foggy's hand, kissing it so slowly, Foggy felt a shiver of desire run through him.  
  
"I want to do all those things, too," Matt said. "I want you to own me forever. For the rest of my life. I want to be the greatest lawyer in the world and work with you for as long as you want me."  
  
"Matt, you are like chocolate," Foggy said. "There is no such thing as _too much Matt_. You are--I'm gonna want to work with you for the rest of my life. Forever. I want to get old and wrinkly and ugly with you."  
  
That veered dangerously close to romance, but all Matt did was laugh and say, "You're never going to be ugly, Foggy. Even when you're old."  
  
"And I want you to keep flattering me," Foggy said, teasing back.  
  
Matt smiled and shook his head. "It's the truth," he said. "Rosalind--and whoever else--is an idiot. You're--Foggy, you're adorable," and Foggy laughed with him.  
  
"Okay, let's go get some food. I can order if you're tired. What do you want?"  
  
Matt paused. "Pizza, Foggy?" he asked, shoulders hunching, daringly.  
  
Foggy wanted to kiss him again, and did, quick and chaste. "Yep. Pizza party up in here, and we can watch more movies. And cuddle. That's what my family taught me, you know, cuddles and food fix so many problems."  
  
Matt grinned, and Foggy got up, stroked his hair once, and ordered them some pizza.  
  
As they ate, Matt eating slowly but surely, Foggy only touching his own ranch-splattered pizza, their legs touched, and Matt commented on how this particular case Farragut took seemed nearly impossible to work with, seeing as the client was too traumatized to talk or even respond to most questions.  
  
But as Foggy described her defiantly shaking her head at the prosecutor's accusations, and using her talk-speech device to say _no_ , to stand up for herself with her new assistive-device voice even as she was visibly terrified, Matt smiled warmly, and things felt like they would be alright again.  
  
Foggy vowed to start reading the book about PTSD after New Year's Day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also comes from the movie 'Gone Girl', misogynistic but entertaining trash as it is.


	105. an insistent jackhammer of distress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strong trigger warning in this chapter for mentions of pedophilia, child abuse, and a kind of awful 'joking' threats parents do.

It's New Year's Eve, and Bee is determined to go outside of the guest room.  
  
They're standing in front of the door, shaking violently, trying to make themselves open it. It's just not happening.  
  
They reach out a hand and bodily flinch back from an imagined noise. Then they step forward and put their hand on the latch, and it freezes. It won't turn. They can't make themselves do it.  
  
You're being ridiculous, they tell themselves. _Absurd. It's just a door. Open it._  
  
But they can't.  
  
They look at the rest of the room longingly. They want to go hide in the closet, or under the bed, or under the covers. They want to go back to their tablet and rewatch all of the ASL videos they've found. They want to escape.  
  
But it's New Year's Eve, and there's going to be a _party_ , and Candace Nelson isn't going to be there, and Matt _is_ , and they _want_ to leave the room and go and eat canapes and drink wine or do whatever it is free people do at parties.   
  
(What they used to have to do at New Year's Eve parties doesn't bear thinking about.)  
  
And they can't make themselves open the door. It's too frightening, it's making them tremble, and they know it's stupid, they've done so many more frightening things, they used to have so much more grit—  
  
But they can't fucking open the door. They turn and glance and see the bear, and reach to grab it and tuck it in the crook of their elbow. It's stupid, and childish, but the bear is soft and named Anthea and for some reason, it makes them feel braver.   
  
(A teddy bear was, the entire time they were at the center, the only thing they wanted.   
  
Ever since the first time the director had called them up to his office and used their naked body to teach his son that that was what slaves were for— _I'm doing this to it so I don't have to do it to you_ —and they fixed their gaze on the teddy bear, that was what they wanted.   
  
And now they were free, and they had a teddy bear almost just like it, with soft graham-cracker-colored fur and glass blue eyes and an ability to be hugged tightly.)  
  
And with Anthea in their arms, they calmly grasp the doorknob, twist, and step out. They hope they look—well, not good, they don't want to ever be pretty, it hasn't done even Matt any real good—but not like something to gawp at. They have a long-sleeve shirt, washed hair, and a teddy bear, and their heart pounds for a second, and they think to themselves, _this is a bad idea_ —  
  
And then they see Matt, looking calm and steady, and they can't help but walk up and tap out on his arm, [Hi.]  
  
[Hi.]  
  
There's a long pause. And then they burst into laughter. [So, you know who else is coming to this?]  
  
[I haven't the faintest,] Matt says, and they bump into him as they meander towards the kitchen. Food is a pretty safe thing to like, even though they can't taste it and chewing is humiliatingly hard.  
  
But being full is better than being hungry, and they're so beyond done with being hungry. Being free means you don't have to go hungry, and they're free and they're going to stay that way.  
  
(The next asshole who puts a collar on them will wake up the next morning to a dead slave. Fuck that shit.)  
  
[Foggy said there would be more of the Nelsons, and some people from the Kitchen as well,] Matt says, and they hand him a soda. They don't especially like soda—fucking bubbles—but the high sugar content makes them less likely to swoon.   
  
[Which people?]  
  
[I don't know,] Matt says, looking faintly annoyed by it.  
  
There's a long pause as they both drink sodas. Matt wrinkles his nose but chugs it anyway.  
  
[Don't like the taste?]  
  
[It's highly chemical,] he says, and then pinches his other wrist, hard. [But it shouldn't be evident to anyone that I don't like it all the time.]  
  
They roll their eyes. Foggy is _madly_ in love with Matt, and as ridiculously dangerous as that is, Matt really needs to just enjoy that more while it lasts. [Foggy won't care if you like something one day and then hate it the next. You should just take advantage of what you've got and stop acting like a snotty brat.]  
  
Matt rolls his eyes again. [Self-discipline doesn't come from letting yourself do things just because you want to do them. I know you don't have much experience with that—]  
  
And they whack him with the bear in the face just for that, and he goes stiff and then bursts into laughter, and then they both laugh. God. It's so strange, having friends.   
  
People start to filter in, and they hear Foggy and Miss Anna and Mr Edward talk to people, and some of them make their way to the kitchen. A couple look at them curiously, and more greet Matt, but before too long it's still mostly them and Matt in the little nook and cranny in the kitchen. Matt's looking..not good, so they poke and prod him into sitting under the kitchen table with them.  
  
[It's odd,] he tells them. [I'm not used to...this kind of party.]  
  
[You're used to the rich people parties?]  
  
Matt nodded. [And either there's a set of protocols to follow, or else you just sit behind a closed door,] he said, face wistful. [Things used to be simpler.]  
  
That hurts their heart with how true it is. [Yeah,] they say back. [Things used to be simpler. But I think this is still better.]  
  
[For you,] Matt says, turning his head and looking resentful. [Do you know, both times Foggy's punished me it's been inconsistent how? And he says all the time he won't, but he has, and I wish he would just pick something and stick to it.]  
  
[Yeah,] they say, thinking about the twins. They never picked any one thing, either. And then: [Wait, how'd he do it both times?]  
  
[The first time, he let me do it—pushups until they really hurt,] Matt explains. [And the second time, he yanked me to his therapist's appointment with him and yelled at me a bit in front of her.]  
  
Bee frowns and thinks it over. Matt's right, those two are _completely_ inconsistent. [I'll tell him to pick something and stick with it. What do you hate the least?]  
  
[Non-damaging slaps are okay,] Matt says. [Or sleeping on a floor. Or not eating.]  
  
They blink, and think about it. [Alright. I'll make him see sense.]  
  
[Thank you,] Matt says, and leans into them.   
  
They sit there in quiet silence for a bit longer, and then Foggy walks over.  
  
–  
  
“Uh,” Foggy says, as he sees Bee and Matt sitting under the kitchen table. “Are you two okay?”  
  
“Yes, Foggy,” Matt says. Bee's holding—is that a teddy bear?  
  
He makes sure to not stare, and instead refocus.  
  
“Well, uh, Aunt Jillian's here and is lecturing me about how awesome you are, so you should probably come out and see her, or else she'll yell at me. Plus it'll break Anna's heart if she thinks I made you hide under a table, so, uh, let's go. Also, there's mini-quiches,” Foggy says, and Matt elegantly climbs out.  
  
Bee follows, dusting off their hands, and then peels away somewhere.

\--

They sneak away, because as cute as Matt with a baby probably is, they don't really want to be around one. The other day, they tried to watch a video of baby sign to brush up just that little bit more, and the sight of the mother kissing the baby on the forehead made them start sobbing, a horrible knife of envy twisting in their chest, and when they got to the part with the baby signing _mama_ , they almost threw the tablet across the damn room.   
  
That, and they don't think they can handle being around Miss Anna or Mr Edward, not when they've been sequestering themselves in their house like a particularly skinny Boo Radley. Instead, they find another corner to huddle down in, and watch people.   
  
Free people are weird. They all stand, and some of them laugh awkwardly at things for no reason, and they talk about the most boring things. Half of them are talking about politics, and half about the weather. Some are going on and on about their window-painting business or burger-joint food trucks. One guy, who's older than any slave they've ever seen, looks like he's half-asleep as a middle-aged guy with an ugly beard excitedly shares his theory of economics.  
  
It's all very, very weird, and nobody seems to notice them, sitting on the floor with their knees defensively up, until a kid comes over.  
  
“Hi!” the kid says. She looks—younger than when Bee lost their tongue. “I'm Hennessey and I'm five and I like your bear he's really cute where did you get him?”  
  
Bee blinks, and and Hennessey—and who the fuck names a kid after liquor?—says, “Oh, wait, sorry, are you deaf, like papa and daddy?” and she signs it as she says it.  
  
Bee stares at her. It's a very strange feeling—they haven't actually had a conversation in ASL in years and years, the cunts never wanted to learn it or even SEE, didn't care if they couldn't communicate with their professors or talk to anyone, liked it better that way—and signs back, slowly, 'I'm Bee. I'm not deaf. But I can't talk.'  
  
'Oh, cool! I'm hearing and I can talk. Your bear's really cute and I like him and where did you get him?'  
  
'Her name is Anthea,' they sign slowly. It's like stretching out after being in a cage for a long time. Difficult, but good. 'I got her from Build-A-Bear'.  
  
'Oh. So you got to make your own bear?'  
  
'Yes,' they sign. 'Do you like bears?'  
  
'I love bears they're great but Papa didn't let me bring mine to the party because he said someone would spill on it and then I'd be sad forever so Alfred is staying at the hotel.'  
  
'Hotel?'  
  
'Me and Daddy and Papa live in Miami with Alfred and our fishes Nietzsche and Kant,' Hennessey explains. 'So we're staying in a hotel so we can come to the party because we were gonna come to the Christmas party but Daddy's deaf and because he went deaf when he was forty-two nobody in the Nelsons signs and Papa's always been Deaf and he can't hear even a little and he didn't want to go to a Christmas party where he couldn't talk to anyone but Daddy wanted to come to this one so I could connect with my family and they argued and I saw it.'  
  
Bee stares, fascinated. They don't exactly have a wide range of experiences, but they've never seen anyone sign so _breathlessly_. And they've never seen children so—so—  
  
Carefree. Like they can say and do anything they want. Even the cunts were cowered by their dad. Hennessey seems cheerful and unafraid of everything.  
  
Bee searches for a different thing to talk about, but Hennessey jumps in before they can think of anything. 'Why are you sitting on the floor and not talking to anyone? Grownups don't do that.'  
  
They feel near-humiliated, which is why they snap back, 'I used to be a slave.'  
  
Hennessey blinks, and mouths _oh_ , and then goes on relentlessly. 'Why? And why does that mean you're sitting on the floor?'  
  
That's—nobody has ever actually asked _why_. Bee thinks about how to explain it, especially to a kid. They don't know how to handle kids, but they suppose they can try.  
  
'My mom sold me when I was three,' they sign, and put their hands down. Suddenly it's so _real_ now that they said it. Now that they told someone.  
  
Henessey looks confused. 'Why? Were you really bad one time? One time I had a really big bad day at the store and Papa told me that he'd take me down to the slavers if I asked for one more goddamn toy Hennessey you brat and then Daddy had a huge fight with him when he came back and told him it wasn't okay to say that no matter how mad Papa was at me.'  
  
Bee blinks and hugs Anthea. 'I don't remember. I don't remember her at all.'  
  
And it's true. They don't know anything about Jocasta Ramirez. They don't remember being sold, or even intake. They remember waking up on the little pads in the floor in the K-class dorm, knowing that this was how a day went: the wake-up siren, the kneeling role-call, the crawling and then walking to the classrooms to all kneel and chant what you were told to chant before breakfast of oatmeal and rubbery yellow eggs—  
  
But they can't even remember how eggs tasted.   
  
They shiver, and refocus. Hennessey looks upset. 'I'm sorry that you don't remember your mommy,' she signs, the _sorry_ over-emphasized. 'I don't have a mommy because my mommy was a slave and so I got put up for adoption because slaves can't be mommies or daddies because they're not qual-i-fied and Papa looked at me and said this is the baby I want and Daddy said that too.'  
  
Bee looks at her, this tiny little child who doesn't know anything about fear, or pain, or intake, who's never had to kneel and sing the little ditties they had the slaves sing all the time, _what happens if you're bad enough? We all get whipped and die_.   
  
They blink, and then sign, 'What do eggs taste like?'  
  
Hennessey tilts their head, looking confused. 'Salty! Eggs are salty and if you make them right they're all fluffy. Daddy makes them really good. Papa always burns them but I eat them anyway.'  
  
'You don't have to,' Bee cuts in before they realize they're doing it. 'Ever. You're free, you don't ever have to eat burnt eggs.'  
  
They're shaking, anger and jealousy and something like protectiveness twisting inside of them. She's _free_ , she's five and she's free, she should never, ever be hurt.   
  
'Why don't you find one of every type of cookie, and bring them here and tell me how they taste,' Bee suggests before they give into the urge to grab Hennessey and—and hide her away somewhere safe, far away from adults and free people, who are all like the garden shears when they cut through their tongue, each looming and terrifying.  
  
–  
  
Foggy guides Matt as best he can with a huge influx of people, some of whom are small children running around like mad, excusing them and having to stop twice to say hi to older relatives, and eventually gets Matt into the living room where the mini-quiches and Aunt Jillian are sitting, bouncing Isayeah on her lap.   
  
Isayeah immediately squeals when she sees Matt, and his face breaks into a beautiful smile.  
  
“May I, Foggy? Miss Jillian?” he asks, and before Foggy can even say 'yes' properly, Aunt Jillian says, with audible relief, “Oh, thank fuck, Matt's here,” and shoves the baby at him.  
  
Matt takes Foggy's cousin gently, holding her carefully and reverently, smiling the entire time.  
  
“He is great,” Aunt Jillian says, looking at him. “I wonder if maybe you could loan him to me for babysitting sometimes? I'll pay for the cab fare.”  
  
“Uh,” Foggy said, and saw Matt's hopeful face. “I'll—give me your email and we can talk about it more later,” because that requires enough logistics that he needs to think about it later and talk to Matt about it.  
  
“Alright, I'll have Anna forward it to you,” Aunt Jillian says, and then turns to her and shooes at Matt—actually _shooes him away_ like he's a child or a dog, what the _fuck_ —saying idly, “Please, I love her but if I have to spend one more minute with her I'll take her down to the slavery office,” and Matt's face goes white as he gets out of there fast.  
  
Foggy gapes at her because holy shit, what is _wrong_ with his aunt, and then shakes his head and goes after Matt, who's sitting on the staircase like he was the first time Aunt Jillian foisted her baby off on him, holding and rocking Isayeah, whispering to her in some other language.  
  
“Hey? Matt?”  
  
Matt tilts his head, still pale.  
  
“I just—I know that's freaky as hell, but she meant that as a joke, you know that, right? A really stupid joke and me or Anna or someone will probably tell her not to tell it again, but she didn't—she wouldn't really do that. She's not—no. She wouldn't really,” Foggy tries to reassure him.   
  
Matt swallows. “Of course, Foggy,” he says quietly, and that's not his real agreement voice, and Foggy feels an unpleasant prickle of frustration behind his eyelids. God. This is so difficult sometimes.  
  
“Nelson,” he hears behind him, and turns to see Brett Mahoney, looking like Caligula after he hacks up a hairball. Foggy blinks.  
  
“Mahoney,” he sneers just to see Brett twitch with irritation. Brett Mahoney is his nemesis and the most fun person in probably the world to wind up, and it's easy because his mother, for some weird reason, is unnaturally fond of Foggy.   
  
Ever since he had to ask her for a band-aid because Candace tripped and got hurt walking home with him, she always shows up to the New Year's parties, bringing delicious pies and little trinkets and tchochtkeys and in return, Foggy's given her a variety of things, from a CD of the best Christmas music to a complete set of the best body lotions from Lush to coming over and doing her dishes when she was bone-tired. Brett _hates_ it.   
  
He and Brett mutually despise each other. It's beautiful.  
  
But now, he sees Matt's confused face and decides to maybe redirect the conversation a bit. “So, your mom dragged you here again?”  
  
“She press-ganged me,” Brett says irritably. “What did you give her this time?”  
  
Foggy grins. “Cigars,” he says brightly, because just before the semester began and it was her birthday, he'd sent her three cigars, the type she said she loved.  
  
Brett groans. “God, don't _encourage_ her,” he says, rubbing his eyelids. “She smokes more than enough without your bourgeoisie, ass-kissing nonsense.”  
  
Foggy opens his mouth up to retort back, something about how just because _he_ can't buy his mom cigars because he's so straightlaced it's not even funny, and then the door gets knocked on and opened and—  
  
It's Rosalind, swaying, drunk, crying out, “Fog _gy!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a quote by Patricia Weaver Francisco: "If the occurrence of rape were audible, its decibel level equal to its frequency, it would overpower our days and nights, interrupt our meals, our bedtime stories, howl behind our love-making, an insistent jackhammer of distress. We would demand an end to it. And if we failed to locate its source, we would condemn the whole structure. We would refuse to live under such conditions."
> 
> The song Bee remembers singing is sung to the tune of this song from the dystopia movie Snowpiercer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HciZ_7frXmQ


	106. just put your sweet lips on my lips

And before Foggy can say anything at all, Matt's suddenly standing there, Isayeah propped up on his nonexistent hip, looking calm and faintly annoyed.

"Ma'am, I believe you weren't invited, I'm so terribly sorry," he says, and Rosalind sways again, blinking at him. She's completely _sloshed_ the way Foggy hasn't seen her in years, and he feels suddenly embarrassed for her.

"Where's _Franklin_?" she slurs out, swaying. Matt's looking in her general direction with the most plain disgust Foggy's ever seen on his face. Usually he reserves it for gross concoctions on cooking shows or truly disturbing things found in restaurants in _Kitchen Nightmares_.

"There is no-one here by the name of Franklin, ma'am, you must be confused," Matt says smoothly, and closes the door in her face, only to have her yank it back open.

"Don't you close the door on me!" she screeches. "I have a right to see my son!"

And then Matt actually, honest-to-goodness _rolls his eyes_ and says, almost drawling, "Ma'am, I'm so terribly sorry, but you don't have a son. There exists a person biologically related to you, but given that you appear to have a dedication towards fulfilling none of your parental duties while attempting to reap the rewards, you've been disqualified."

"What?" Rosalind asks, her brow furrowing up.

"You believe that you have a son because you believe that by wishing hard enough, you can just make the child you'd rather have claw his way out of Foggy's skin. Foggy, by the way, is the name of your child, and not Franklin, a basic fact which I'm sure you'd know if you weren't a neglectful, spiteful, emotionally abusive failure of a mother and a human being.

"Now I'm afraid, ma'am, that if you attempt to enter this house I'll be forced to stop you and call the police, and I'm sure you understand that _as a lawyer_ it would not reflect well on you to spend New Year's Eve in a drunk tank, even if charges were not filed, and given that you're a defense attorney and therefore the NYPD probably despises you, I'm sure that they would be. Goodnight and have a happy New Year," Matt finishes, and shuts the door in her face again.

Then Rosalind yanks it open, face like thunder. "You can't talk to me like that," she snarls, looking more sober. "You're a fucking slave. You shouldn't even be standing up. You should be naked and gagged and whipped for mouthing off to me like that."

"Ma'am, I'm terribly sorry, it is up to my owner to decide appropriate behaviors, protocols, and punishments," Matt says coolly. "And you are not my owner."

She sneers at him. "You were supposed to straighten him out," she says viciously. "Supposed to make sure he'll make something _great_ , pull himself out of this pile of shit people call the Kitchen. You're his fucking safety net, so that when Franklin grows up he's not completely flat-footed by all the coddling bullshit they've fucking fed him. Treated my son like a goddamn mushroom, kept in the dark and fed on _bullshit_ ," and she sounds sad and angry all at once. Malcontent.

"Duly noted, ma'am, but I cannot allow you in," Matt says. Isayeah starts making little unhappy-baby noises at the cold air, and Matt reaches to close the door, but Rosalind shouts instead.

"I'll put in a fucking complaint to the bureau about your goddamn obedience issues!" she yells.

"You are certainly welcome to do as you please, ma'am, but I am not permitted to allow you in," Matt says, looking almost bored by the threat.

Rosalind's face twists, but she turns and storms off. Matt closes the door firmly, and gently soothes Isayeah, shushing her and cradling her face to his shirt.

"Shh, shh," he says to her, voice soft as a blanket. "It's quite alright, she's well and gone. By the time they threaten to call a bureaucracy on you, they've run out of useful immediate ideas. And she's more than drunk enough to not even remember it in the morning. Her BAC was .172."

"You can smell BAC?" Foggy asks, grinning.

"At this range, yes, Foggy," Matt says, and rocks her as she starts to calm down.

"Dude, you--Matt--" Foggy says, and steps forward, and the only thing he can think to do is kiss Matt, cup his face and kiss him, careful to stay chaste but happy, and then he hugs as best he can.

"Careful, she's delicate," Matt says, and Foggy blinks and smiles wider as he moves away. Isayeah makes a happy cooing noise, and Matt bounces her, changing grip again.

"Let's get you some quiches, and champagne," Foggy says happily, and leads him over, ignoring Brett's strange expression, half-envious and mostly fascinated.

\--

Bee finds Matt in an armchair holding a baby on his lap with Caligula sitting on his head, purring like an evil dictator, carefully eating bites of what look to them like some weird yellow pie and sipping at a cup of water.

They glance about, and Foggy's slurping down wine nearby, animatedly talking to some cousin or uncle or somebody about law school, gesticulating and talking about criminal law and defending the innocent and 'FUCKING the man'. They have no idea what he means, so they pull a chair over and sit with Matt.

The baby keeps cooing and babbling, making spit-bubbles. Matt looks serene.

"Caligula wanted to sit in my lap too, but Isayeah is rather too young to understand not to pull on cats' fur, and so he escaped to there," Matt says, and Bee grins at the adorable ridiculousness of the picture.

[I met a kid named Hennessey. We're playing hide and go seek.]

Matt blinks. "Why are you hiding here, then?"

[To teach them that some of the best hiding places are in plain sight,] they smugly inform him, and twist to look at Foggy. [When I tell him how to punish you--you're sure you like being slapped?]

Matt shrugs. "If it doesn't do any physical damage, it's better than a long, drawn-out affair. And it's easy to make it hurt with only one or a few hits, and then it's over with. I'd rather at least _know_ than constantly feel as if I might do something wrong and get whipped without at least having time to brace myself."

That makes sense. They nod, and watch Matt go back to playing with the baby, tickling her and rocking her and bouncing her with his legs, reaching up every few minutes to pet Caligula. He talks to her in French and tells her a fairy tale in German about a really weird-ass prince who wants to fuck a tree, and then Hennessey comes barreling over and crashes into them.

'FOUND YOU FOUND YOU FOUND YOU', she signs, whole body vibrating, bouncing up and down in her jeans with flowers on the knees and striped shirt. 'I FOUND YOU I WIN!'

'You win,' they agree, and offer her a cookie. She eats it, and then looks between Bee and Matt.

'Who's that?' she signs.

'He's Matt,' Bee signs back, and taps on Matt's leg, [The kid is asking about you.]

"Pleasure to meet you, Miss Henessey, I'm Matt," he says, all charm and submissiveness. She giggles.

"Hi I'm Hennessey," she says, and signs it too. "Are you a slave like Bee used to be?"

He nods. "I am," he says, and sounds genuinely at peace with it. Poor bastard.

She blinks. "Well, Matt's not as cool a name as Bee is. Bee is the coolest name because it's like bees and bees are cool because they're important to the en-vir-on-ment," Hennessey says, sticking her chin up. "But you're okay I guess. Why are you a slave?"

Bee tilts their head and looks at Matt, who looks like he just swallowed a lemon, and he has to answer unless--

They wave their hands in front of Hennessey, and quickly interrupt. 'Want to play hide-and-seek more? Go hide and I'll find you.'

'Cool! You're awesome!' Hennessey signs back and races off. Bee breathes in and out.

[She's going to hide. I'll go after her in a minute.]

"Thank you dearly," Matt murmurs, and Isayeah shrieks. "Yes," he tells her. "That was a close call."

Bee stands up, and before they go to find Hennessey, they make sure to tell Matt, [You might have to tell Foggy that stuff about punishment too. Free people are really obtuse on the whole topic, he might not believe it coming from me,] and then they tuck Anthea back into their arms and go to methodically search places.

 

\--

 

Foggy gets drunker and drunker as the night goes on, as it nears midnight, and Matt keeps one ear on his owner as he enjoys his little bit of peace. Isayeah is so blissful to be around; to be allowed to hold her, touch her, talk to her, play with her hair and make her giggle is such a wonderful privilege. Matt hopes that Foggy will let him babysit her on occasion.

He hopes that Foggy was right, earlier, and it was just some cruel joke. Foggy certainly believes it was, but Matt's known free people, and one moment it's a joke and the next reality.

He banishes the thought, and savors the moment. Caligula is almost too warm on his head, loud and purring and content, regal even in his ridiculousness, and Isayeah is a happy, healthy, clean infant that mostly just seems to want focused social attention. Matt speaks to her in every language he knows, dredging up Farsi and Arabic and Spanish, telling her idle things. How to bake a cheesecake. How to fold linen pants. How to pack a suitcase, or speak to a store assistant.

It's all very nice, and the mini-quiches are good for microwaved-from-frozen morsels, and Matt's not terribly afraid. He hopes Foggy will listen to Bee and pick a punishment and stick with it. That, coupled with his recent flood of orders and expectations and wants, will make it so much easier for Matt to be happy like Foggy wants him to be.

Matt smiles, and enjoys the party as best he can. It's very different than the parties he was trained on, re-introduced to society through. There's no following your owner and kneeling wherever they stopped, or standing if you were there in their stead. There's no Vivaldi playing in the background, or fancy kneeling cushions for when the courses were served, or leashed-slaves-only rules, and the alcohol is being served in a mishmash of mugs, dixie cups, glasses, and plastic cups.

But Matt got to insult someone, which _is_ like some of the parties he's more used to. Back then, it had always been some uppity house-slave that tried to 'accidentally' spill something on one of the more valuable slaves or owners, or some political or social rival of his owner, or even some freed servant that of course despised Matt for being a slave.

( _Sorry, slut, looks like you've got be leashed._

_I'm so terribly sorry, but I have to ask, where's yours?_

Matt could _smell_ , almost, the burning hatred from that gaze.)

And this time it was Rosalind Sharpe, who Matt would have almost preferred to be allowed to call the police on. He wants to rend her bloody, gnash his teeth on her throat, except he was holding a baby and he's not there to make trouble or inconvenience his owner.

So it's almost midnight, five minutes away, when Foggy comes back over, looks at Matt, and bursts into hiccupy _slizzered_ giggles.

"Matt," he says, and giggles more. " _Matt_ , you're--oh god. That's the cutest thing I've ever seen. I'm taking a picture," and Foggy snaps a picture, and Matt obediently smiles for it.

"Oh god. That's--Matty, c'mere," and Matt shoves the familiar little spurt of anger at the nickname down and stands up as best as he can, Caligula moving to drape on Matt like a scarf.

"Come on, you've gotta--hear the fireworks, I'll describe 'em," Foggy says, and Matt follows him to a very loud room with a lot of very drunk free people, and curls to cradle Isayeah up against his chest.

Thankfully, she starts to cry, and that gives Matt the ability to swallow and ask Foggy, "She--it's the noise--can I take her somewhere quieter?"

"What? Yeah. Oh--oh shit, sorry, you probably wouldn't like how fireworks are anyway. Shit. I'm _drunk_ , Matt," Foggy complains, and leans into him.

Matt smiles. "I know, Foggy," he says, and he finds a quiet little spot, away from everyone, to sit down again in, and Caligula perches once more on his head like a crown.

Like Salome's crown of hair, Matt thinks suddenly. He remembers without meaning to--

("This hairstyle is called a crown," Summer explains as she winds what Matt knows is a braid around. "It's very complex. Put in extra jewels, combs, a couple of ribbons, even, or flowers, and it lives up to its name. It's what Salome wore, back when she danced her dance. It's what Persephone wore after she gave in.")

And Matt thinks at the memory, frowning. Foggy is not Hades by any means, not dark nor smelling of leather. Foggy would never yank him from his mother.

Except--except--not letting him talk to Summer again--

But that's ridiculous, he's a slave not a person, people have mothers, slaves have trainers, and yet--

Matt bites his lip. He knows that Foggy derives inexplicable joy from spoiling Matt, that's entirely clear. But--

Oh.

Foggy wants not just a doll to spoil and cuddle and enjoy the fruits of its labor, he wants--

He wants Matt to be a doll because of the intimacy. The feeling of pure, absolute power and safety, the knowing that Matt will not leave him, not betray him, not hurt him. Matt won't turn on him. Matt will always defend him.

It warms Matt's heart, and he smiles, and as the countdown in the rooms with televisions does down to ONE, he grins and Foggy, tasting of low-quality wine, kisses him hard.

Matt relaxes into it, kissing back like a slave, and vows to give Foggy what he really wants: Matt, happy, flourishing, strong. No more of this pathetic cowering and constant flailing around. No more of wildly misinterpreting him. No more of letting his old owner's class prejudices leak into his thoughts. No more being too timid to tease him, when that was what Foggy wanted.

And then Foggy turns from the kiss when Caligula hisses, and Foggy laughs. "Everyone's gonna leave or pass out soon," he says. "Aunt Jillian says she's gonna go home now, she said she was gonna go home, so we gotta--I'll let you babysit if you wanna," he slurs as they get up and meander back to her. "But she's gotta pay you. You d'serve compensation for labor."

"Of course, Foggy," Matt laughs at the joke.

He reluctantly hands Isayeah back, but Miss Jillian is sober, and says, "You're a fuckin' lifesaver, kid," and kisses his forehead.

Caligula then climbs up from the floor into his arms instead, and Foggy stumbles them upstairs and into his bed, curling up into Matt.

"'m so glad I got you, Matt," Foggy says into his neck. "Never wanna sell you. But next year will be better. More listening. More learning. Gonna be a team, Matt."

"Yes, Foggy," Matt says, and Caligula makes a spot on top of Matt's feet. "We'll be a team."

Foggy sighs. "Wish I could go back in time and unfuck you," he says sadly. "Never wanted to hurt you. Never. Not ever. Matt?" he asks suddenly.

"Yes, Foggy?"

"If I ever try to fuck you, just hit me or something, okay? I promise I won't be mad."

What on earth? But Matt makes a soft agreeing noise, and Foggy calms for a while. But then, just as he falls asleep, he mumbles, "You still smell so good."

Matt closes his eyes, and vows to investigate more if he's supposed to want sex, and if so, how to evoke such a thing without the suppressed nausea and terror, and he falls asleep as well.

He dreams of pomegranates.

\--

It's late, when Hennessey has to leave, but before she does, Bee makes sure to give her a little piece of information that they have known for most of their life, but this little child doesn't possess.

'Don't trust adults,' Bee signs carefully. 'Not me, not your parents, not anyone. Don't trust adults. If they have any power over you then you can't trust them. Not ever.'

Hennessey looks confused, but hugs Bee goodbye, and leaves with her fathers, both of whom look a tiny bit harried but take a cab alongside a whole bunch of people.

Bee goes back to their guestroom, and finds that it's been duct-taped shut. They stand there for a second, frowning heavily, and then Anna Nelson says over their shoulder, "It's to stop the drunk ones from opening it. I've found that the more intoxicated someone is, the more difficult peeling duct-tape off a surface becomes."

Bee whirls around, and rips off the tape, and starts retreating as fast as they can.

"Edward's brother Thomas has found an apartment two buildings over from Matt and Foggy's place," she says, looking tired. "Or you could apply to live in student housing. We can talk more about it in the morning."

Bee nods, and shakes, and closes the door, and then hides under the covers with Anthea.

But they sleep pretty well once they calm down, and when they do, it's about children that are carefree and silly, not even knowing how to hide or to be afraid of people yet.

They dream and see fireworks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from Hozier's song 'Like Real People Do'.


	107. against that power tyrants and dictators cannot stand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for mass/public suicide.

  
Foggy wakes up with a horrifying hangover, an empty bed, and the vague sensation that he's forgetting something.  
  
He groans and yanks a pillow over his face, and then stops, because he smells _bacon_ , and it's enticing enough that he gets up and fumbles his way downstairs, blinking and wincing at the light. Everything is _loud_.  
  
He gets downstairs to see the guests that stayed over--ten of them--all sitting up on couches and armchairs, or standing up, or at the tables. Everyone is eating: bacon, pancakes, eggs, toast. One of Foggy's younger cousins grins and waves and says, "Good morning! Your Matt is awesome!"  
  
"Huh?" Foggy asks, stupefied by how much his head hurts.  
  
"Your Matt--your slave--he's making everyone eggs and bacon and toast and really good pancakes! And there's orange juice."  
  
"Coffee?"  
  
"There's coffee, too, Foggy," Matt says softly from the kitchen, and Foggy turns to go stumble into it.  
  
In it, Matt is juggling five different pots and pans on a four-burner stove. There's two pots full of hot coffee, and a glass pitcher of orange juice, as well as two cartons.  
  
"The coffee on the left is half-caffeinated, and the right one is fully caffeinated," Matt explains, using tongs to pick up a fully cooked piece of bacon off the pan and onto a paper towel on a plate. There's sausages sizzling in a different pan, and he turns them over as he explains further, "And there's orange juice--full pulp, no pulp, and freshly squeezed. The syrups are, I believe, on the table somewhere."  
  
Foggy looks at him, and at the pans. One has pancakes, which Matt flips over as they start to bubble, and one has scrambled eggs. The other has a single fried egg, sunny-side up.  
  
"Blurghl," Foggy says inarticulately, and then, "Shit. Matt. How much did I drink last night?"  
  
"A lot, Foggy," Matt says, a faint glitter in his eyes. "I believe half one of the champagne bottles."  
  
"Oh _god_ ," Foggy mutters, and finds his way to the kitchen table. "No wonder my head hurts. Did I kiss you last night?" he blurts out, frowning.  
  
"Yes, Foggy," Matt says.  
  
"And you weren't--it was good?"  
  
"A little winey," Matt teases, and Foggy grins at him. "But very good, Foggy, thank you," and turns and bends to give a quick peck to Foggy's hand.  
  
Foggy relaxes. So kissing is okay. Still no sex, he reminds himself. None whatsoever.  
  
Matt gives him a plate with a fried egg, just like Foggy likes it, and pancakes, sausages, and bacon with maple syrup. He hands Foggy coffee and orange juice, and Foggy impulsively catches his hand and kisses his wrist, because goddamn, Matt is a gift.  
  
Matt's whole body shivers with pleasure, mouth visibly opening with it, and he murmurs softly, " _Thank_ you, Foggy," and kisses his hand.  
  
There's the sound of a cough, and Foggy turns to see Bee standing in the kitchen, holding the same teddy bear. They say through their tablet, "Foggy. I will email you. Later."  
  
"Okay," Foggy says, and then Matt puts forth a bottle of advil, and he says, "Oh, fuck, thank you," and takes six. Matt smiles at him and goes back to the rest of the food.  
  
Bee stares at him, their eyes dark and watchful, and then they sigh and retreat again after grabbing a cup of coffee laden with cream and sugar.  
  
"Why do they take it like that?" Foggy mutters. "They can't taste it."  
  
"It's a good vehicle for adding in extra calories," Matt says, pouring in the last of the pancake batter. Foggy glances and sees a mountain of dirty dishes in the sink, and his headache starts to subside after he gulps down the orange juice and eats more of the bacon.  
  
It's crispy, salty, delicious. His egg is perfect, the yolk runny, and it tastes like it's been cooked in the bacon fat. God. Matt is absolutely perfect.  
  
"You are perfect and I adore you," Foggy informs him as he tastes the coffee.  
  
Matt smiles warmly. "I always aim for perfection," he says. "You deserve only the best," and he stiffens a little at that but Foggy laughs and shakes his head.  
  
"Nah, that's you," he says affectionately. "Anyway, once you're done, we should totally go home before Dad tries to weasel out of doing dishes and make you do them, or something. Go home and celebrate."  
  
"We do have more of those movies to watch," Matt says thoughtfully, and finishes the last of what looks like a second carton of scrambled eggs. He puts them on a plate along with the last of the sausages and the bacon.  
  
Foggy finishes eating, and yawns, stretching. "Ugh," he says. "Let's--I'll get my stuff, and then we can go," and he cricks his back. "Before Candy gets home and goes all sad-eyed and shit."  
  
Matt nods, and goes to start gathering their things. Foggy finds his bag from where he'd dumped it in his room, goes back downstairs, and gets waylaid by an aunt.  
  
"Your Matt is just wonderful," she says warmly. "So great to have him here, and to see you too. I hope you both have a wonderful new year. You feed that boy, understand?" she says, and hugs Foggy.  
  
"I will, and thank you," Foggy says. "Matt _is_ great."  
  
She beams, and Anna tells him she'll forward Aunt Jillian's email address to him so he can work something out with her, and he and Matt get a cab.  
  
Halfway home--the cab taking a weird route--the cabbie says, "Wait--shouldn't you, I dunno, be kneeling?" to Matt as his scarf slips, and Foggy's happiness snaps.  
  
"Oh, fuck off, we'll walk or take the subway," he snaps, and opens the door. He and Matt get out, and he pays the taxi driver because he's not an asshole, and then Foggy looks around and realizes they're in Times Square.  
  
"Huh," he says, blinking, Matt taking his arm. "There's--what's over there?"  
  
It's a line of slaves, standing, ominously silent.  
  
There's a crowd gathering to stare, and Foggy has the sudden feeling that maybe he and Matt should _run_ , that something big is about to happen, but he doesn't go.  
  
Instead, he stares at the weird sight, and then the slave in the middle--a guy, dark hair, looks maybe Cambodian if Foggy was about to guess ethnicity--clears his throat and says, loudly, "This is a public protest!"  
  
The other slaves shout, "Live free or die!"  
  
The guy says, "This is a protest against our living conditions, which are unreasonable. This is a protest against our enslavement, which is immoral. This is a protest against our classification by the United States Government, which is unlivable. This is a protest against our dehumanization, which is unbearable!"  
  
The other slaves shout in unison, "Live free or die!"  
  
Foggy stares, awestruck. The slaves are young and old, male and female, ambiguously gendered. Some are wearing next to nothing, even in this cold, others uniforms. One of them is weeping even as he stands strong, an old man. One of them looks like Candace, if she had had her hair dyed purple and shaved on one side of her head.  
  
"This is a protest against the society which has systematically abused us," the slave in the middle says, voice quiet, but it's so hushed in Times Square that everyone hears him. Everyone is frozen.  
  
"Live free or die!"  
  
"This is a protest against our living conditions," the slave says. He looks defiant. "We can no longer bear sitting on our knees, crawling for scraps, being starved, beaten and raped! Our collars are too heavy a burden to bear. We refuse!"  
  
"LIVE FREE OR DIE! LIVE FREE OR DIE! _LIVE FREE OR DIE!_ "  
  
Foggy would back away, but he's frozen. Next to him, Matt is completely stiff as well, eyes wide.  
  
"Today, on this first day of the year 2015, we say _no more_. No more!"  
  
" **LIVE FREE OR DIE!** "  
  
"This is the declaration of war against a world that has treated us in immoral, inhuman ways. This year will be the year of us standing up! This year will be the year of us dying with dignity that we are not afforded in life!"  
  
"It is better to die on your feet than to live on your knees!" the other slaves shout. Standing strong, holding hands.  
  
"This year, we declare war. No more slavery!"  
  
"NO MORE SLAVERY!"  
  
"And in one year's time, we will all either be free or _dead_ ," the slave declares. "But for us here today, there is no hope. We have no escape. There is nowhere to go, but we refuse to live one more year in this misery. LIVE FREE OR DIE!"  
  
And as the other slaves chant with him, harmonizing like a choir, "LIVE FREE OR DIE!", they all draw something out of their clothes--  
  
It's a _knife_ \--  
  
And they all reach up and, in unison, say together, more openly crying now, " _Live free or die_ ," and they all slit their throats as one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a quote in Babylon 5, the TV show. Specifically, this quote by the character G'Kar: "No dictator, no invader can hold an imprisoned population by force of arms forever. There is no greater power in the universe than the need for freedom. Against that power tyrants and dictators cannot stand. The Centauri learned that lesson once. We will teach it to them again. Though it take a thousand years, we will be free."


	108. I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide, welling and swelling I bear in the tide

Matt stood frozen for a split second at the sea of iron-scented salty wetness, the stink of fresh corpses, the pounding heartbeats of the crowd like a thousand war-drums, the audible terror in the hush, before turning and pulling Foggy away.  
  
"Foggy," he said quietly, "Foggy, we have to go. We have to go home."  
  
Foggy seemed speechless, so Matt decided this qualified as an emergency and yanked his scarf up more to cover his collar, took a deep breath, and then took some initiative and turned to lead them over to cabs, knocking on them one by one until he found an available cab.  
  
"Shit, kid--"  
  
"Do _you_ want to be here when the cops show up?" Matt snapped, putting what authority he didn't possess into his voice. The cabbie swallowed.  
  
"Fuck no. Let's get out of here."  
  
"Foggy, we have to get in," Matt murmured, and directed him inside. Foggy seemed in emotional, though thankfully not physical, shock. He gave the taxi driver the address, and held Foggy's hand, squeezing tight.  
  
"Your friend seems pretty shaken," the cabbie says. "But you're not."  
  
Matt swallowed. He wouldn't be alright later. But--"This isn't the first time I've been around a dying slave," he said, and kept his tone calm. He had to get Foggy and him safely home, and get Foggy to feeling okay, and then maybe later he could curl up under his blanket and hide from this crazy, awful world.  
  
God. What had they been _thinking_? What had driven any slave to agree to this? Who had led them all? Who was the Pied Piper?  
  
Matt shoved those questions away and listened to the cabbie navigate the emptying streets, all the while checking over and over again on Foggy, who seems just--stunned. Completely stunned.  
  
Matt gritted his teeth, remembering Rosalind's words. Kept in the dark and fed bullshit. Well, she wasn't entirely _wrong_.  
  
They got home, and Matt took a chance and nudged Foggy in the ribs. "Sorry," he whispered into Foggy's ear, "But we need to pay the cabbie and go inside, Foggy, now. Foggy, I need you," and Foggy seemed to come out of his daze at that.  
  
"Shit," he said, and fished around in his wallet, fumbling for a few minutes. "Shit--here--thanks--"  
  
"My fuckin' pleasure," the cabbie muttered, and Matt steered Foggy and him away and up into their building, Foggy's apartment, and sat him down at the kitchen table.  
  
"Matt--what're you--"  
  
"Medicinal tea, Foggy," Matt explained. "And soup. I know you're not exactly sick, but this broth will help with emotional shock, I know it," and he moves as fast as he possibly can, pushing his adrenaline into it.  
  
"Shit," Foggy muttered, shaking his head. "God. Some of--the people in the front got _splattered_ ," he said. "Fucking--so much blood, Matt, so much blood--"  
  
Matt paused. He'd smelled it, the blood, the death. The corpses. How could they _do_ that? Matt couldn't understand it. He couldn't bear to think about it.  
  
Not when he'd been there as Charlotte had been beaten to death. Not when the overseer had come to apologize to him for having to witness it, skin still stinking of hemoglobin. Not when there was a basement in Winter's house where he'd taken slaves he bought--rapists and poachers and child molesters--and wrapped Matt's hand around so many knives and Summer stood, coolly evaluating, and made Matt slash their throats over and over until he got it _right_.  
  
Matt focused. Broth. Tea. He made two mugs of each, fast as he could, and brought them into the bedroom. The bedroom was much, much safer. Foggy followed him there, pulled off his coat, changed into sweatpants and a soft shirt in the bathroom, and Matt made sure to take off his coat and shoes and change himself as well before fetching his weighted electric blanket. He could follow cues.  
  
He stood, unsure, at the foot of his owner's bed until Foggy said, "Fuck--if you want to--c'mere," and then Matt plugged it in, laid down so that his head was on Foggy's thigh, and draped the blanket over himself.  
  
He focused on soothing Foggy, on gently rubbing Foggy's leg, murmuring that it was alright, it was okay, they were safe here now, the danger was passed, it would be okay, and Foggy drank the tea and slowly seemed to calm down.  
  
Matt fought not to tremble, and he succeeded, mostly, until Foggy hastily got up to get his laptop and turned on CNN, and then suddenly Matt's hearing failed him and he could hear every news broadcast in the building, in the whole street, Fox News and CNN and all, and it was so loud--  
  
"It's absolutely a failure of the federal government to pass proper oversight," Bill O'Reilly was saying, "We need to be caging them every night, or chaining them, we need to be regulating these animals, ensuring that they can't go out and do things like this--"  
  
"Already the Republicans are using this to flip-flop on the issue of government oversight, when it's their fault in the first place that slavery is such a private institution, they were the ones pushing for it relentlessly in the 80s, what's changed? Oh, just that their master plans backfired!" Another pundit was shouting, a woman--  
  
And another woman, Megyn Kelly, "It's just unacceptable that something like this can happen in any city, any country, completely unacceptable, it goes against everything we want in this country, we need to be questioning Obama, he has to answer for this--"  
  
Wolf Blitzer joined in, too, "There's reports coming in of similar protests in Washington DC, Los Angeles, Portland, Toronto, Montreal, Mexico City, Paris, Berlin, London, and dozens of other cities around the globe, all of whom are reporting a complete massacre--"  
  
"I'm getting reports that a YouTube account containing professional footage of all the massacres has been found already, with captions, transcripts, and a promise of more violence to come--" and that was from the BBC, and then they all got louder and louder, coalescing, and Matt curled up, hands to his ears, shaking--  
  
\--  
  
Foggy turned off the news--it was useless, there was nothing conclusive yet anyway--and turned to Matt.  
  
"Matt," he said gently. "Matt, what's wrong?"  
  
"Loud," Matt whispered. "Loud--everything's so loud--I can't--I can hear every news broadcast in the street and they're all screaming--"  
  
Foggy looked at him, and googled 'sudden sensitivity to noise'.  
  
He looked at it, and one of the first results was the Mayo clinic's page for migraine symptoms, and then Foggy abruptly remembered from that horrible doctor's visit that Matt could get migraines, and that he'd gotten a prescription filled for just in case of that.  
  
He got up, and flinched as Matt whimpered at the crinkles and sounds as Foggy searched for the bottle. He eventually found it, read the directions-- _give one every two hours with water as needed_ \--and took one out. "Sorry, sorry," Foggy whispered. "Sorry. Matt, here," and he put one in one of Matt's hands, prying them off his ears, and the water bottle in the other.  
  
"Matt, take that," he whispered as Matt seemed unsure, but then Matt uncurled and swallowed the pill and the water.  
  
"Good," he whispered, hating himself, but Matt then went a tiny bit less tense. Good. "Matt, I'm gonna go be in the living room, okay, so it's quiet. I think you have a migraine. I'll be back later when you're better."  
  
Matt nodded. "Foggy, you don't have to go," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."  
  
"Matt--Matt, it's okay," he whispered back, and gently kissed Matt's forehead.  
  
Then he forced himself to leave the sanctuary, grab his laptop and a blanket, and go out to the living room to monitor for actual news, his gut churning.  
  
God. What the hell had just happened? What was going to happen next?  
  
( _Would Matt be **free** by this time next year?_ )

\--

 

 

 

Matt woke up, groggy and disoriented, and tried to figure out why he was where he was.

He was in _Foggy's_ , but under the electric heavy blanket Foggy had given him, and his head felt strange, tender and sore and bruised from the inside out--

Oh, hell. He'd had a migraine, hadn't he? And the sleepiness meant that Foggy had given him the medication that was noted in his file as being effective. But--Matt hadn't had a migraine in years, and he couldn't remember drinking red wine, what--

Oh. It must have been the days of not eating, followed by last night, and then today's massacre.

Matt flinched into the bed, curling tighter. The _massacre_ was what the news had been calling it before the pill had kicked in and Matt had fallen asleep, and it was the right word for it. All that blood, drenching the streets, scabbing over. God.

What was _wrong_ with them? Was it contagious?

Matt couldn't understand it. He refused to understand it. He didn't want to have a drop of sympathy for those-- those-- he didn't even have a sufficient word for them. For slaves gone that wrong.

Matt got up, and felt hideously guilty for losing himself like that instead of comforting Foggy properly, and slowly stumbled his way to the living room, where he could hear Foggy's thumping heartbeat.

"Matt?"

Matt collapsed onto his knees in front of him, and billowed his head on Foggy's thigh. He couldn't stand to sit on the couch, not now, not with his stomach twisting, his guts writhing. Not with the remembered smell of too-much blood in his nose.

"Hey, Matt, feel better?" Foggy asked him softly, stroking his hair. Matt nodded against his thigh.

"I'm just tired, Foggy," he murmured. "Thank you so much, I apologize for--"

"No, it's--Matt, I am not an expert, okay, but I am pretty sure that migraines are not a voluntary thing," Foggy said. "And like--jesus--you always deserve painkillers, okay? Always. Seriously. That's such--that's basics."

Matt sighed and burrowed his face further into Foggy's thigh for a moment, nuzzling him. "Thank you," he said, and turned into Foggy's gentle hand on his hair and kissed it twice. He was so lucky.

There was a quiet minute, and then Foggy said, "So here's the good news: they're not, like, going to round up and kill everyone."

Matt blinked rapidly, and deciphered it as best he could. He still felt sleepy enough that it sounded wrong, but--"Slaves?"

"Yeah, no, there's not gonna be any mass execution or anything," Foggy said. "But the bad news is that the governor declared a state of emergency, and there's been a couple temporary things issued.

"There's a curfew--slaves aren't allowed outside by themselves, apparently, for now. And CNN is saying that they might enact some law about, um, you having to sleep either chained to something or else in a cage, and I hope not, but. Yeah. That's what's going on.

"And they're revoking weapons permits, and saying that, um, even stuff like pocketknives are weapons now. So we should--you should take yours out of your oh-shit kit."

"Okay, Foggy," Matt exhaled, eyes slipping shut again. He was so tired. His head felt tender, swollen. Injured.

"You okay there, Matt?"

"Postdrome," Matt said. "After a migraine. Fatigue and...drowsiness," and he turned his face fully into his owner's leg.

"Okay," Foggy said, and typed something into his laptop. "Okay--hrm. Alright. We'll--take it easy the next few days, okay?"

"Thank you, Foggy," Matt murmured, nodding. That sounded good.

He lay his head there for a few more moments. Then Foggy said, "I can't get the picture out of my head. There was--Matt--I mean. Just. Their faces. They were so--determined. Some of them were crying."

Matt hated those slaves even more. "There were _children_ in the crowd," he said quietly, angrily. "Children. Children saw that."

"It's fucked up," Foggy said. "It's all so fucked up. It happened all over the world, too. It was coordinated. There's--Thailand offered asylum to any slave that wants to go there. Chile, too. And so did, I think, um--Greenland. They're all saying they're willing to get anyone across there."

Matt's lip curled. "Idiots," he said. "Fucking--terrible--insolent little uppity _idiots_. What good is all that going to do? Is it an appeal to conscience? It's a fucking terrible one," he said, without meaning to at all.

"I dunno," Foggy said thoughtfully, still stroking his hair, massaging his scalp. "If they wanted to make an impression, that's what they did. Everyone's exploded about it. I'm getting Facebook Colander so I don't have to--people are reposting the pictures, the videos. They keep trying to take down the account with all the videos and transcripts and shit, but it keeps propping up. There's described versions, too, but--I don't think--"

"I don't want to hear it again, Foggy," Matt murmured, too tired to be afraid of voicing that. "Those heartbeats...stopping. It was so fast. They must have known to go for the arteries."

"Yeah," Foggy said, and one of his hands rested on Matt's head. Warm and firm. Matt relaxed into it, submitting to his owner's will, his owner's body.

"Some of--people in the front got splashed. It's so fucked up, but, I guess, I dunno. In retrospect, I kinda--well--I get it, in a way. What the guy was saying, about living conditions--I dunno. Push people hard enough and they push back, I guess."

Matt shivered wildly.

"Hey, hey, no, it's--calm down, Matt, I'm not--shh."

Matt tried to calm down. "It's a sickness," he said quietly. "I'd never do something like that. Not ever."

"I know, Matt," Foggy said softly. "I know. I'm not saying that you would, okay? Just--I get, sort of, why this is happening. People are fed up with this shit. It's too much. It's too much for them."

Matt shook his head. "I don't understand it," he said, plaintive without meaning to be. "I don't--death isn't better. It's not better. Whoever their owners were, death isn't better than being owned. It's not."

There was a silence. "I'm glad you think that," Foggy said. "And thanks for disagreeing with me," he added, one hand gently reaching under to lift Matt's face up. "Thanks for being you, and for getting us out of there, and getting me home," he said, and kissed Matt.

Matt went limp.

"Shit, sorry, shit--Matt?"

"Foggy?" he asked, eyelids fluttering, time and place unstuck.

"Yeah, it's me. Sorry, I should've known--if you feel this bad, I shouldn't kiss you, sorry."

"I like it," Matt said, opening his mouth for more. "You're good at kissing."

"Oh, that's--thanks, Matt, but--you're kneeling, and, and."

"I like kneeling," Matt offered up. "It's better this way. Where I'm supposed to be. It's safer down here," he said, and sank down another inch.

"Oh. I didn't. Oh. That's--well--I guess that's up to you, um, to feel like that. But. I don't want--Matt, I'm worried about, uh, making you feel bad, or obligated, or like--I guess I mean trapped? Yeah.

"I don't want you to feel trapped. If you don't want to be kissed anymore, or not today, or you feel like that would, uh, bring up bad memories, tell me, okay, please? Tell me. Because you have a really solid poker face, so I don't know if I'm about to hurt you or not, and it stresses me out."

Matt nodded. "I'm okay, Foggy," he said. "I'm here. I know where I am. I like the way you kiss me, what it means," and he ducked his head at that, blushing faintly, not knowing why.

"What _does_ it mean for you?" Foggy asked curiously.

Matt tried to find the words, as wrung-out as his body felt. Like a wet sponge, the way it felt after being fucked for hours or whipped and bandaged or forced to train beyond his limits for an owner's viewing pleasure. "Like I'm valuable," he said eventually. "Like I matter to you."

"Oh. Good. You _do_ matter to me. And of course you're valuable, Matt--this is--let me put it like this, alright? You're irreplaceable."

Matt smiled, it spreading across his whole face, and he turned to kiss Foggy's hand, over and over again, unable to stop. _Irreplaceable._ The best, safest thing to be.

"Hey, that's great, but you're gonna get my hand all wet," Foggy teased him gently.

Matt did his best impression of looking up through his eyelashes at Foggy. "Are you sure that's not what you want?" he asked, teasing back, trying to make him happy.

Foggy went stiff. "Okay, um--Matt--"

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I didn't mean to--"

"No, I just--you know I'm not gonna fuck you any more, right?"

Matt nodded. "I know, Foggy," he said.

"Okay. So. Um. That was--let's get some takeout, okay, and then we can do something mindless. How do you feel?"

Matt grabbed at the words floating on the surface of his mind. "Like standing up is too much work," he mumbled, completely exhausted. "I'm not sure I could, Foggy, I'm so tired..."

"Alrighty then, you just--stay there, let me get your kneeling pad, then I'll get us some delivery online, some from that Japanese-Thai place with sushi. You like sushi, right? What kind do you want?"

Matt tried to think, and opened his mouth and closed it.

"Wait, or--too tired to make decisions?"

Matt nodded.

"Okay. Um. You got spicy tuna and avocado last time, and shrimp tempura...let's get both, there's a special. And Thai iced tea for us both, the really good kind, and then those skewers..." and Foggy's voice seemed to trail off into infinity.

At some point, Foggy had gotten Matt's kneeling pad from the hallway where Matt stored it sometimes, and put it down next to Matt, who shuffled over onto it and collapsed his head back onto the couch. It felt so much safer like this.

Matt focused as best he could on how he was okay, _he_ wasn't disobedient and dangerous and feral, he wasn't rabid and monstrous and crying, he wasn't back with his previous owners, listening to slaves get hurt and hurt and _hurt_ and even though it was their own fault for fucking up he wished he couldn't hear their punishments, it made the sex worse--

But then there was Foggy again, Matt's head on his leg, Foggy's hand in his hair and Foggy's hand typing on his laptop and Foggy's smell permeating Matt's nose. Foggy, who was safe, who was kind. Foggy, who got up when there was the smell of an unfamiliar person and food, Foggy, who was talking to Matt--

"Hey, Matt, um. Do you want to--can you eat, uh, sitting up?"

It sounded like a genuine question. Matt shook his head. He was too tired.

"Oh. Okay. Maybe--uh--this sounds weird, but, I guess, would you like it if I fed you?"

Matt's eyes shot open, and he nodded as vigorously as he possibly could. That sounded _wonderful_.

"Okay. Then--let me get set up--" and Foggy bustled around, and then there was the beautiful smell of sushi, tuna and vinegar and ginger and wasabi, and Foggy sitting back down again, and Matt obediently turning his head to the side and opening his mouth.

"This feels weird," Foggy said, but put ginger and soy sauce on the sushi, not the wasabi, and picked up a piece and put it in Matt's mouth. With his _hands_ , oh god, it was so perfect.

Matt closed his lips around Foggy's hand, just like he'd been taught how to be handfed, and kissed them after he chewed and swallowed. It tasted good.

"Good? You're good?"

Matt murmured, "Thank you, Foggy."

"You really like this, don't you?"

Matt nodded. "Thank you so much, Foggy."

"Okay. Then let's just keep doing that, okay. Tell me if you stop liking it or if you're full," and Foggy put another piece in Matt's mouth.

They continued like that, Matt mindlessly happy, full of pleasure and safety and support, Foggy slowly warming up to the idea as Matt kissed his fingers each time.

Foggy fed him one and a half of the sushi rolls before Matt murmured, "I'm full, Foggy."

"You sure?"

Matt nodded. "Thank you, Foggy," he said, his thrumming contentment leaking into his voice, making it a purr.

Foggy flushed. "Um. Okay. Let me just, uh, put it away then--" and Foggy stood up hastily, almost knocking Matt into his erection.

 

\--

 

 

 

 

God. Foggy had to get his sex drive under _control_.

He leaned against the bathroom wall as he applied cold water to his hard-on, hissing through his teeth at the sensation, thinking about solutions.

He could maybe try to get laid, though he both neither had ever had all _that_ much luck when he'd tried deliberately and didn't feel...right, having sex again. He didn't trust himself with another person anymore, not after he'd so wildly misinterpreted Matt's reactions.

Foggy winced as he remembered Matt saying _doesn't it feel like I want this?_ and not _yes_. God. He'd fucked up so badly, and he couldn't stand the idea of doing it again.

But all the same, he kept getting hard at the smallest things. Anytime Matt was really happy and relaxed and-- _sensual_ , maybe, though that still sounded way more erotic than Foggy meant, something to do with closeness and Matt's tongue brushing his fingertips and all the kissing--

Foggy sighed. Maybe he should just buy a new vibrator--all the old ones, even in his head were _tainted_ , contaminated by his old fantasies.

He'd deleted all of his porn, every bookmark, scrubbed his laptop clean of it. Even thinking about his oldest, favorite fantasies made him want to curl up and die. He couldn't stand to look at them, much less jerk off to them.

Maybe he'd try to fantasize about Marci again, or--

Well, if it was just a _fantasy_ , and he was by himself--

Maybe--he'd ask Miriam. He'd ask her if it was unethical to imagine having sex with Matt when he'd--

Foggy closed his eyes, counted to ten four times in his head, and breathed in and out slower. It was okay. He thought about the helpful phrases she'd suggested to him: _I am in control of my actions. I can choose what I will and will not do. I am capable of choosing to not do what I feel is harmful. I am in control of my actions, and I can choose to not do this thing that I am worried about doing._

He calmed down, thought about Matt, put his flaccid dick away, left the bathroom, washed his hands thoroughly four times, and then went back to the living room, where Matt seemed exhausted but alright.

Foggy put on one of those cooking shows Matt liked as background noise while he read more of what he could find on the emergency laws. There was a lot of speculation as to who the perpetrators were, people trying to tally up the death tolls, and reports of--

Foggy sat up straight. There were reports coming in of whole medical research centers being emptied, slaves sentenced to them being liberated, suddenly gone, tracking chips left behind. 108,000 slaves so far, and counting. _Over a hundred thousand slaves_ were free, had been freed, had _freed themselves_. 

There was a sign left behind at all of them, painted in blood on the roofs, at each emptied medical research plant, the ones featured in horror movies as sites of terror, the ones even Foggy had known at the height of his naivete, were _bad places_. There were  _pictures_ , and the signs all said--

_**WE ARE NOT THINGS. WE WILL NOT BE SLAVES AGAIN. WE WILL NOT BOW OUR HEADS. WE WILL NOT KNEEL. WE WILL NOT KISS YOUR FEET. WE WILL NOT BE GOOD FOR YOU. CATCH US IF YOU CAN.** _

Foggy felt his face curl up in happiness, distort itself. Oh god. That was--now they could--now they could be _free_ , or at least fight back. Now, maybe, just maybe, things would get  _better._

He looked down at Matt, and gently ran a hand through his hair, and wished, stupidly, unfairly, that Matt was there with those ex-slaves, defiant and standing up for himself and free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from Maya Angelou's "Still I Rise," here: https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/still-i-rise
> 
> And read by Nicki Minaj excellently well here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MafMxdiXe6I


	109. he's tried to make me go to rehab. I won't go, go, go

Foggy stared at the little email Bee had sent him.

It said, _If you're going to punish Matt, pick something simple and be consistent. He'd be fine with being slapped a bit, so long as you don't do it hard enough to hurt him._

He tried to decipher it, tried to figure out the deeper meaning, or if they were just being blunt the way they were, and eventually wrote a furious, angry rant about how he was never, ever going to punish Matt, not ever, he had tried to make that clear, and highlighted and deleted it.

Then he sent back, _I am not going to ever punish Matt. I think I said that multiple times._

Then Bee replied, almost immediately, with _I thought that was just something you were saying to be nice._

Foggy looked at it, and thought about how Matt probably just thought he said that to be nice as well, and wanted to cry.

Instead, he turned to tell Matt about the escaped slaves, the good news, because otherwise he'd start crying, and if he started now he wasn't sure he'd ever stop.

\--

Matt half-listened to Foggy typing furiously on his computer, back and forth, and drifted. At one point, he came back up to full consciousness, but then a part of him would start to think about the stench of the blood and immediately he'd go Elsewhere and come back to this place only partially.

Matt listened, and breathed, and thought, vaguely, until Foggy addressed him.

"Hey, Matt?"

Matt blinked and came up to full attention. "Yes, Foggy?"

"There's news, there's _great_ news, there's--medical centers were opened, the slaves--slaves in all of these medical research centers, here and in Canada and Europe too, they're all--okay, not _all_ , but most of them, they're _free_ , they're free, so many of them, and they're empty now, Matt, I can't believe it, it's so great."

Matt tilted his head, and frowned, and then his eyes widened as he put it all together.

"It was a feint," Matt said, incredulous. "It was--that was a distraction. The massacres. That's _threatre_ , that's melodrama, that's all--that was just for show. They traumatized children and, and, made things so much worse for _us_ for the sake of fucking _zombies_?"

There was an awkward silence. Foggy sounded shocked as he asked, slowly, "Zombies? Why are--what are medical research centers called, to you?"

"They're called zombie mansions, Foggy," Matt murmured. "And medical research slaves are called zombies."

"Why?"

"Because the kindest thing to do for a zombie is stick a shotgun in its mouth and pull the trigger," Matt explained, and Foggy full-body jerked away from him.

"Shit!"

Matt went still, adrenaline flooding him. He--shit--he hadn't meant to fuck this up--

"Matt, that--shit. But--but now they're all free."

Matt blinked. Was that what Foggy thought _freedom_ was? Hiding and sneaking and fleeing to a different country?

"Matt?"

"Of course, Foggy," he said, and made himself obediently smile.

"That's--okay, what are you _actually_ thinking?"

Matt frowned, chewing his lip. "They're not free," he articulated slowly. "They're just severely disobedient and dangerous. They're not free. They'll have to hide, all of them, hide and run their whole lives. That's not freedom," he said, and hoped--hoped--

And Foggy didn't get angry. Instead, he said quietly, "I guess you kind of have a point. But Matt--do you ever want to be free?"

What? No.

"What?" Matt asked, blinking in surprise. "Of course not. Why would I want that?"

There was a horrific, aching silence, and then Foggy sank down to the floor and started to laugh hysterically.

 

\--

Foggy started to laugh, and then he couldn't stop. He laughed, and giggled, and snorted, and once he started to sob it got worse, tears running down his cheeks, snot falling out of his nose. He shook and sobbed and convulsed, breathless, with a mixture of helpless laughter at the sheer absurdity of it all and helpless horror at the sheer absurdity of it all. He felt like he had finally cracked and gone insane.

He was vaguely aware of Matt worridly nudging his shoulder, and talking to him, trying to calm him down, but he couldn't. He just couldn't. He cried, and howled with laughter, and rocked back and forth. At some point Matt had hugged him tightly, and that almost made it worse, bringing forth a fresh flood of tears.

Foggy had no idea how long he wailed with hysterics, but eventually he dried himself out, completely _done_. He felt--

Weird. Not broken, just--better. It had been what he needed, maybe, to just cry it out. To _react_ for once.

"Foggy?" Matt asked him, clutching on to him. "Are you alright now?"

Foggy sucked in a snot-putrid breath, and exhaled slowly. "I'm okay, I think," he said. "Just needed a good cry. I'm gonna--I'm gonna take a shower, wash this snot off my face, oh god Matt did I get snot on you?"

Matt blinked. "It's fine," he said. "I'll change."

"Good. And then, and then, let's--have some quiet time, okay? Quiet and peaceful. Today has just been way too much. Today was fucked. We can figure out more stuff tomorrow."

Matt nodded, and let go of him. "I'm sorry, Foggy," he murmured.

"No, dude--you know what? I think I needed that. Sometimes you just gotta let it out, you know?"

Matt looked confused, but nodded, and Foggy went and showered. In the shower, he thought about it over and over again, and decided that yeah, he'd buy a new vibrator, and figure out some combination of shower-on and music-from-his-laptop that would drown it out enough that Matt wouldn't heat it, and he'd start...taking care of himself a bit more.

That, and read that PTSD book. It had become sharply clear that he and Matt spoke different languages and lived in different worlds, and Foggy was sick of not understanding him. It was high time he shaped the fuck up and ripped off the last of his illusions.

\--

Matt changed shirts, lay in his bed, and started to try to research human sexuality.

It was a difficult undertaking, with how much it made his heart pound and him remember the smells of slick and Mistress Sharon and lube, the frothy mix he soaped from between his legs, but he had to. He'd vowed to a while back, and again much more recently, and it was time he started putting in real effort.

What he found about free people was interesting and contradictory enough that Matt decided to put it down as something for later. Certainly, sex seemed to be something powerful for free people, not the unpleasant-but-livable chore it was for slaves.

And so he went for the most reputable, highly respected slave training and psychology websites, finding research with as much experimental basis and scientific analysis as he could.

What he found was also conflicting; trainers sometimes said slaves all hated sex but could be taught to do it very well anyway, and other trainers said their slaves could be taught to love sex, adore it, seek it out voluntarily. Some trainers found it a mark of brokenness or a diminishing-value feature; some trainers specifically sought to create a craving for sex.

He read, and read, frowning more as he went. There wasn't anything conclusive about sexual desire as defectiveness, though he read that one trainer--a Kelley Wilmington, with a private training house in Athens, Georgia--that boasted that she could turn even the most frigid, asexual, sexually repulsed slave into a willing nymphomaniac with focused positive reinforcement and 'dependency of basic needs contingent on sex'.

So maybe Matt's body was just--doing work for him. Adapting for him. Foggy had wanted him to want sex, and his body was trying to catch up.

Matt lay, curled up, listening to Foggy watch some program about kittens and puppies and coo at how cute they were, and thought about it, a pleasant buzz in his mind. If he was starting to like sex--to want it--if it could become a pleasurable thing, then maybe--

Maybe he could use it to his advantage. Sex was a great way to pacify owners, to please them, soothe them, take their mind off their troubles and bring down their stress levels. And Matt hadn't lost his sexual skills, he knew _that_.

So maybe he could, once the process had started to come around, once he was ready--

But no. Foggy had said no sex, had forbidden it, so Matt's body was too fucking late.

Matt sighed, and stopped picking at the knot that was sex in his head, and bookmarked the pages of her sample suggestions for owners who wanted to book training time with her to prepare their slaves for the process. They consisted of suggestions to have slaves masturbate frequently, but forbid them from orgasming, and to work out a schedule with her so that they could participate in the process.

Then he checked his email, told Bee that they should perhaps, maybe, email the Martie woman from the Disability Services office with their concerns about on-campus housing--which he wasn't actually familiar with, but she had helped Bee before, when he and Foggy had gone to her, and she seemed inclined to be helpful yet.

He remembered, after that, what Foggy had said about weapons and carefully removed the pocketknife and the oven-cleaner spray from the oh-shit-kit, and lay back down. Matt was still tired, even after that long while he'd spent being allowed to kneel and rest his weight on Foggy.

And then Matt let himself float a bit, get away from the stress and worry about the curfew laws and possible leash laws and cage laws coming up, and eventually fell asleep.

That night, he dreamed about being remade, being operated on. Surgeons sticking their hands inside his body and rearranging his organs so he was more useful. Matt wanted to be good, but they had to strap him down anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from Amy Winehouse's "Rehab", which is a theme song for this fanfic, really.


	110. if only you could see the world as it really is! it is beautiful and on fire and awful

"Hi, I'm Ellen Pyrziakis, and this is Morning American News. Today we'll be hosting a discussion about the recent laws enacted by the governor of New York, as well as what the recent slave rebellions mean for United States politics and the global economy. With me is Rachel Kuchakis, noted abolitionist and lawyer for the group Last Slaveowner Generation or the LSG, Morgan Rhondaman, head of the protectionist group A Softer Tomorrow or AST, and Kennedy Arcana, co-founder of the traditionalist organization A Firm Hand or AFH. Welcome everyone."

"Hi, Ellen, thanks for having me on. Today I'd like to begin this discussion with a disclaimer: we at the LSG do not in any way support acts of violence, but we are very glad to have heard about the liberation of medical research center enslaved people, and hope that this signals the start of a better year."

"You know, Rachel, I myself hope this year will be better as well. We at A Firm Hand have been discussing, strategizing, and synchronizing our own strategy for how to respond to these terrorist acts, and we hope to work with sister organizations to prevent any violence of this sort from happening ever again."

"Well, we at A Softer Tomorrow hope that these recent laws will go a long way towards ensuring the safety and happiness of our valued slave population. We've been saying it for years--slaves need to be treated in humane ways, or else violence is provoked. It's a simple principle: kick a dog, mistreat a dog, and even the sweetest of man's best friends turns on you. I don't know why anyone is surprised that these attacks took place--the lack of federal regulations--"

"Actually, sorry to cut in, Morgan, but I'm glad you brought that up. Now we all know that the state of New York has declared a state of emergency and the governor has enacted a few new laws: a curfew on any slave leaving their place of residence or an official boarding kennel without their legal owner or an appointed handler, a law forbidding the carry of any form of weaponry, and just this morning, he also declared a law that states that slaves must either be caged at night or chained to a piece of furniture. Now, what do you all make of these laws? Kennedy, would you like to start?"

"I certainly would! We find these laws to be a first step in a band-aid solution. While no slave should be allowed to roam free at night or outside alone, we shouldn't need a law to enforce any such thing. Slave-owning should be a private enterprise only, and limited to individuals, not corporations. What should be the driving force behind the use of cages and such is the knowledge an owner has that slaves need a firm hand. It is important to ensure that slave populations are kept in their place--"

"Kennedy, I'm sorry, but let's speak like rational adults here. The idea that the federal government should have no regulations regarding the discipline and control of slaves is frankly ludicrous. The government regulates the transport, use, and sale of many dangerous substances, from medical opiates to certain forms of firearms. Slaves should be regulated in a similar manner, with a complete overhaul of the Slavery Bureau to boot. These terrorist attacks--these feral slaves--have made clear that we as a people have lost sight of what qualifies as appropriate force, and in fact have failed to give slaves what they need--clear expectations, reasonable tasks, and appropriate discipline."

"Well, Rachel, any thoughts?"

"It's amazing to me to sit here and listen to two women--two grown, adult women, with degrees from Stanford and Oxford, who are so intelligent--so radically miss the mark. Enslaved people are, like any other person, not responsible for the acts of a few. Punishing enslaved people for the actions of some other enslaved people is unfair and inhumane. The Geneva Convention--"

"It doesn't surprise me that you abolitionists are seeing this as unfair. It doesn't surprise me at all. In fact, I bet you're all happy in your ivory towers, rejoicing about this violence. I suppose you might even be working with these terrorist groups! I bet it makes you cream your damn panties to see so many slaves dead and traumatizing children--"

"Your accusations are baseless and insulting. We don't even know if there is any organized group orchestrating these rebellions, or if they're unconnected--"

"Sorry, ladies, I have to stop you all for a moment. Kennedy, Rachel, let's keep this civil, alright? I understand that this is a controversial topic and always has been, but we can and should respect each other's positions. Now, Morgan, do you have any idea why these rebellions are happening?"

"It's very simple, Ellen. The treatment of slaves since the deregulation of their treatment in the 1970s and 1980s has become steadily worse. Conditions in markets and in private homes have become appalling. Our own governmental bureau, ostensibly meant to ensure slavery is a fine social institution, has a death rate of acquired slaves of 70% in the first year, and 98% in the first twenty years. 70%! It's disgusting! Ever since the introduction of torture porn as a mainstream genre of slavery porn, ever since the preaching in evangelical churches as slaves as punching bags rather than useful assets, conditions have gotten worse and worse. And when you make slaves hungry, beaten and desperate, with no clear discipline and no reasonable incentives for good behaviour, you get violence."

"Sorry, Morgan, but are you saying that it's the fault of us traditionalists that this violence has happened?"

"Well, it's not the fault of the rebelling slaves. We both know that slaves are not truly at fault for their actions--that's their owner's responsibility. It is our job as owners to keep our slaves healthy, happy, and productive, and we have failed them. We have failed them. It's a sad truth and a sad day in America, but it means that we can and _need_ to do better by our human resources. If a farmer mistreats his livestock, they go bad. If he instead takes care of them, they stay good. It's that simple."

"Thank you for your words. Kennedy?"

"Clearly, we at A Firm Hand know that it is lax discipline and a lack of a proper culture that has lead to these tragedies. We need to find the seeds of such rebellion and horrendous, senseless violence within our slaves and nip that in the bud. We believe that there needs to be more private training, more close monitoring, and less mass-- and corporate-ownership of slaves. In addition, we're calling for public disciplining to become more mainstream, and for the invention of more instruments with which to discipline and control our slaves. We've contracted with several companies in order to get the ball rolling."

"Thank you for your perspective. Rachel?"

"Like any oppressed population, enslaved people have simply gotten fed up. Throughout history, there are numerous examples that demonstrate how if you push someone, if you hurt someone, they might just hurt you back. The principle at work is the same one that led our own country being founded--the colonies felt the British government held an unfair and illegitimate authority over them, and they rebelled. It's the exact same pattern here."

"Do you really mean to compare our founding fathers to these terrorists?"

"Yes, Kennedy, I do. Enslaved people are not so different from you or me that they react radically different to violent and inhospitable conditions. Even 'nice' ownership is still dehumanizing and unbearable. There is no way forward other than complete abolition or an escalation of violence."

"That's a bit cynical, don't you think? And Rachel, look, I feel like we can work together, your organization and mine. We both despise a great deal of the more vulgar sides of how slaves are treated at the moment. We both want slaves to be healthy, happy, and well-fed. Why is it that your organization declares itself completely unwilling to work with mine?"

"Because we want fundamentally incompatible things, Morgan. We want all enslaved people to be freed. You want them to remain enslaved. These are mutually exclusive goals."

"Sorry to barge in, but Rachel, what you're talking about would require a complete restructuring of our society!"

"If that's what it takes, then that's what we demand. We here at Last Slaveowner Generation are 100% serious in this goal. We aim to be the last generation to ever own slaves; if that means we're the last generation to live in a society like this, _good_."

"Well, on that note, let's bring in Dakota Richards, this network's economist, to discuss how global markets are reacting in the face of this crisis--"

\--

Somewhere else:  
  
"We'd like to know if you'd be interested in working with us. We can offer--"  
  
"No."  
  
"...Can I ask why?"  
  
"I'm not interested in working with incompetents."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Here's the thing: if any of you were good at your jobs, I wouldn't even be here. Slavery would be over already. Your organization in specific has been around for--what--fifty years? Seventy years? And in that time, what have you accomplished? Nothing. How many slaves have you freed?"  
  
"Well over a hundred thousand!"  
  
"In seventy years? That's tiny. We have liberated over a hundred thousand slaves in a _day_. A hundred thousand in seventy years? That's not enough. And I bet they're all clean, smiling, with thumbs intact and pretty faces."  
  
"What are you saying?"  
  
"I'm saying that you're not enough. You and your organization have not done enough. You have managed to free some of the easiest to free, and a tiny proportion at that. You cut corners and abandon slaves. We are not willing to work with people who neither respect us nor are effective enough to compensate for it. If you all had done your fucking job, we wouldn't be here, doing it for you. Just like we've done our entire goddamn lives."  
  
"We do respect you!"  
  
"Not enough to take our _no_ for an answer. Not enough to treat us like equals. Not enough that if we worked with you, we wouldn't be bossed around, pushed to the side, cannon fodder. At least with us, we know that we all understand the stakes here. We've all run out of fucks to give. You haven't."  
  
"I don't--"  
  
"You're wearing a suit that was tailored with money that has been used before to buy a slave. You're standing here wearing fashion that was started by slaveowners. You live in a house and go to work in a building built by slaves, walking past slaves every day. You're telling me that you're against slavery, but you still live in that society voluntarily? Fuck you. You don't respect us. You don't understand the urgency of our mission. That's why you're all out there, criticizing our tactics, making us out to be crazy. Well, if we're crazy, it's only so that we'll _win_. We are not fucking around. We will not calm down.  
  
"We are not sorting out which slaves can and can't be liberated by the 'classes' YOU put us into. We are not going to back down, or go softer, or engage with anyone who wants to put out our fire. Tell your organization that we are _freedom fighters_ in the truest sense, not the kind of mealy-mouthed 'activists' you're used to."  
  
"Would you ever be willing to compromise with us? Or even use our resources?"  
  
"We don't negotiate with terrorists."  
  
"I--!"  
  
"You may leave."  
  
The sound of footsteps, and then a single shot.  
  
"Alright, that's done with. Next on the agenda?"  
  
"She wants to know when she should drop it. Which date would be the best for our planning."  
  
"Tell her February 14th. It'll fit in perfectly with the other plan."  
  
"Alright. But--you think that's gonna be enough?"  
  
"Big things come in small packages."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a tweet by @NightValeRadio, here: https://twitter.com/nightvaleradio/status/297398945720700928


	111. you think I’d let him destroy me and end up happier than ever? no fucking way. he doesn’t get to win.

"So," Foggy said, sitting down at the table. "Which is less worse for you, caged or chained to the bed? The governor declared this new law, you have to either be caged all night or be chained to something all night--and I have to take a picture of you in it and send it in to this official address thing by noon tomorrow or else we're fucked, so. I figure we can buy it today. Which one?"

Matt blinked, and sipped at his coffee, and thought. Foggy would never put him in a particularly uncomfortable or small cage, and definitely not a mesh one, not if Matt asked. But a cage was--

A cage was more limiting. And if he was in a cage, Matt could never have the rare night in Foggy's bed. "Chained, please?"

"Okay. Then let's go get that in a bit," Foggy said.

\--

Foggy picked Paggette's as the place to go, because he'd been there before and he thought they would have whatever it took to chain someone to a bed.

As he walked in, he saw the same slaves as before as mannequins, this time many of them showing off various ropes and knots and chains. Their eyes passed blankly over Matt, sliding like they, too, were blind. It was unsettling.

"Let's get this over with," Foggy muttered, and guided Matt in.

The same shop assistant as before walked over, smiling. It looked exactly like any other retail workers' smile, on reflection, only a little more desperate. The braided golden metal collar was gone, replaced by some contraption that went from her collarbones to her chin as one piece.

"Are you curious about the collar, sir? It's a posture collar, excellent for ensuring--"

"No, I'm good," Foggy hastily cut in. He felt bad about interrupting, but he really couldn't stand to hear the spiel. "Just--where's the, um. Thing to chain someone to a bed with?"

"Alright sir, over here," she said brightly, leading them. Foggy took a deep breath and guided Matt around the other people peering at collars and whips and riding crops, yanking slaves closer as they passed. Matt's face was impassive.

"Well, we have multiple models. The most popular one is this one, the nail-in model--you simply fasten the chain here," she demonstrated with a small length of chain and what looked to Foggy like a fancy nail, "And then you nail it into a bedpost, headboard, or other piece of sufficient furniture, or of course the wall or floor. Then the other end of the chain can be locked onto the cuffs, and the cuffs locked shut.

"If you're here because of the recent law, we do want to note that the chain must be locked onto the nail and the cuff and the cuffs or manacles locked shut to be fully compliant. Our selection of cuffs is over here--"

"What's the most comfortable? And how do they, um, actually lock?" Foggy half doesn't want to know, but he has to. He can't put Matt in danger.

"Well, the silk-lines ones here are padded, lined on the inside with genuine waterproof-treated silk, and come with a two-for-one special. And the lock is simple--see the stick part of the buckle?"

Foggy squints at it as she holds it up strangely, the lack of thumbs making it clumsy. "I think so?"

"Well, at the loop at the top you simply insert the ring of the lock and--"

"And then you can't unbuckle it with the lock in," Foggy said slowly, blinking. God, that was--simple and cruel. "Okay. And--um. How long is the longest chain you have? In the, um, lightest type?"

"Eighteen feet, sir."

"Okay--Matt, feel that," he said, picking one of the silk-lined cuffs up. Does that feel okay? Not, um, scratchy? Or uncomfortable?"

Matt felt it slowly. "It feels fine, Foggy," he said, and experimentally put it on his wrist. "Perfectly smooth."

"Okay. Then, let's get--two of them, and, and the nail, and eighteen feet of chain."

"Of course sir," she said brightly, eyes flickering rapidly from Foggy to Matt. "And we also have a sale on chastity devices--"

"Nope, nope, not even a little bit interested, no, never. Not at all. None," Foggy babbled. "Let's just get that and get out of here."

"No problem, sir," she said. "Would you like two extra keys per padlock as well?"

"Yeah, that sounds like an intelligent idea," Foggy said, and as she started to check it out, there was the sound of a cry--

Foggy whipped around to look--

And there was a slave being _hit_ , someone was hitting a slave with a riding crop on their--their chest, their nipples, and the slave was whimpering and crying out.

"Hrm," the man said. "I think that's good, then. And does this one have a textured end as well?"

"Yes, sir," a different shop assistant was saying, "And we offer a range of cleaning products to go with--"

Foggy stared, and then Matt shifted to lean a little into him. Then he slowly turned back around, feeling cold with rage, and finished checking out.

\--

Matt did his best to lean into Foggy as they walked back into the apartment, offer him comfort. Foggy still wasn't comfortable with some of the less-sweet sides of slave ownership, but he'd come around eventually, Matt thought. In the meantime, he could do his part by never deserving to be hit with a crop or whipped.

Foggy took out the nail, and the chain--the strangely long, lightweight chain--and got the hammer from the tool drawer and paused. "Matt, do you want to--I think it should be nailed into the top of this one, um, bottom bedpost, or the floor next to it, but that's your bed, so I won't touch it without you being okay with that."

Matt blinked. "I can hammer it in, Foggy," he said, and Foggy nodded and handed him the hammer. Matt made sure the chain was locked in place and neatly, carefully, hammered the nail into the floor right next to the bedpost. Then he handed back the hammer.

"Alright. Um. Let's see how far the chain goes with your ankle cuffed," Foggy said, and Matt obediently took off his sock for it, offering up his foot.

"Okay," Foggy said, awkwardly standing as Matt stretched his leg. "Let me--alright, there's that--" and he buckled it carefully. "That's, um, that's a good tightness? I don't want you to lose circulation."

Matt flexed his toes and his ankle. "It's good, Foggy," he said. It was. He'd be comfortable with it on.

"Okay. Then let me buckle this, and lock it--and of course anytime you want the key, you can have it, anytime, seriously, if it's night and you want to, I dunno, go get something from the fridge just feel free to wake me up or use the key, I'm gonna put it here on the desk--"

Foggy put it on his desk, and then handed one of the spares to Matt.

"And here's yours. And if anyone asks, um, it's for--"

Foggy frowned and chewed it over. Matt grabbed at a good reason to make him feel more comfortable. "Emergencies? In case of a fire, so I could leave the building?"

"Yeah, that's great, that totally works. Emergencies. Yep. And, um. Let me just lock it, and it into the chain--"

And there was the click of locks. Matt's gut clenched and then relaxed. He rotated his foot slowly; there was no numbing, no pins-and-needles, no squeezing. It felt comfortable and not removable. Safe, almost, pinning him down.

Matt slowly stretched to lie back on the bed, curling the cuffed foot under him. The chain was so ridiculously long, he could easily do it.

"And--ok, you should, um, test how long it actually goes in terms of where you can go," Foggy said, and Matt stood up and walked. He discovered that he could make it just inside the bathroom to pee and wash his hands, and he could easily get to Foggy's bed, if he was allowed.

Matt sat back down on the bed Foggy let him use, and smiled.

"Good? Because you don't seem, uh, thrilled about this."

Matt shrugged. "I find the implication that I would need to be chained or caged in order to not break the _very first directive_ as a slave insulting. I knew better than to try to attack any free person or help any slave escape when I was _eleven_ , for goodness' sake. Not all of us are infected dumpster-dives," he said, sniffing.

There was a second of startled silence, and then Foggy said, "I'm gonna--I'm just gonna get started reading this book, alright? But first I gotta take a picture of you with the chain and send it in."

Matt obediently posed, lying back and curling up enticingly, showing off his locked-cuff ankle, lidding his eyes. There was the sound of a phone camera, and then he waited.

"You're good," Foggy said, and sat down to upload it and send it in. Matt uncurled and got his laptop, searched _how to fix incorrect thoughts without pain_ , and started to read.

 

 

\--

 

 

 

 

Matt yawned and stretched, arching his back as he finished reading a wealth of resources. He'd started out with reading the description of something called _cognitive-behavioral therapy_ , and from there found a great many tips, tricks, and resources.

His favorites were the cost-benefit analysis of bad thoughts (and _that_ could be wildly helpful with his anger at Foggy and his occasional inappropriate thoughts about being above his station), and the technique of refusing to argue with irrational thoughts. It sounded counterproductive, and certainly not intuitive, but he had to admit that arguing with his occasional wrong thoughts was giving them a certain legitimacy.

He vowed to try it next time he caught himself slipping too far from how he was supposed to be thinking and feeling. He'd think to himself _I won't argue with irrational thoughts_ and _That's not my problem, not my responsibility_ when creeping fears about politics and moral overwhelmed him.

Matt _would_ be better. Matt _would_ do better.

But then as he stretched he realized he was thirsty, and paused. "Foggy?" he asked softly.

"Yeah?"

"Could I be uncuffed to go get a glass of water?"

"What? Sure. Oh, shit, I totally forgot to--Matt, let me see that," Foggy said, and Matt obediently walked over.

As Foggy grabbed for the key and started unlocking the cuff, he paused. "You know that you can, uh, just use your own key for this, right? Or--is this like with the collars?"

Matt blinked, unsure of what Foggy meant. "I would never unlock myself from a cuff or chain," he said. "Unless it was an emergency."

"Why not?"

Matt's mouth opened and closed. He tried to think of a way to phrase it, and eventually, slowly, came out with, "It's not appropriate or acceptable behavior in a slave to think that they can--that they are--that they--"

Words failed him. He swallowed, and calmly thought to himself, _stop being irrationally offended by the question. Foggy has the right to think and ask you what he wants. He doesn't understand the point of good training, he's not saying that to humiliate you._

"The thought should not enter the mind of the slave to begin with," he articulated. "It should not even be imagined. That symbolizes a very dangerous degree of independence and a lack of respect."

There was an ugly silence where Matt hoped he'd passed the test and helped Foggy understand the situation better, and then Foggy said, "Um. Okay. So I guess--alright," as he unlocked the ankle cuff and took it off of Matt.

"Thank you, Foggy," Matt said politely, kissed his hand, and got himself a glass of water.

\--

The book was thin enough that Foggy read it four times over the course of the day.

The first thing that really struck him was the very first section, and specifically the sentence _While there is treatment for PTSD, and a happy, contented life is often possible, there is no cure for PTSD in any way. Expecting a loved one with PTSD to 'get over it' or 'go back to the way they were' is not a realistic or helpful expectation, and an unfair burden to place on the person with PTSD._

_No amount of patience, love, therapy, and/or determination can completely cure PTSD. With much work and luck, a person with PTSD can live a happy life, full of meaning and joy, and achieve goals that are important to them. They can get to a point where they almost never have flashbacks, panic attacks, or other symptoms. They can, sometimes, push the disease into remission. But just as cancer can be treated into remission, PTSD can always resurge, and the damage it leaves behind is permanent._

Foggy read it, and put the book down, and took a few deep breaths. It was almost a relief, in a horrible, sad way. But a great way, too--it meant that if Matt could never, ever be normal, Foggy didn't have the responsibility to try to help him be normal. If Matt was always going to be kind of--well--crazy, then it meant that Foggy could be okay with him being crazy, because it wouldn't go away.

It meant Matt wouldn't morph into a different person.

(And a part of Foggy, deep down, mused that he didn't think Matt _wanted_ to be completely normal, either. Matt had no desire to be freed, even, much less like the people Foggy had grown up around. If he couldn't be, then it could never happen to him. Thank _God_.)

From there, Foggy read on, and several passages stuck out sharply to him.

_**Frustration** _

_When living and interacting with a loved one with PTSD, it is normal to feel frustrated with their new impairments, particularly if the person is not able to articulate or understand why or what they cannot do. Particularly in modern America, the impact of mental health disorders on functioning is not well-understood. In order to fully comprehend the degree of impairment caused by PTSD, a comparison to physical disabilities can be helpful._

_For example, severe PTSD can be as disabling as paraplegia. Severe PTSD coupled with comorbid disorders and/or disabilities can be as disabling as quadriplegia._

_It is important to remember that a person with PTSD is genuinely unable to do what they cannot do. If they cannot leave their house without having panic attacks, they **cannot** leave their house. If they are unable to eat eggplant, wear cotton fabric, or see images of violence or blood without experiencing severe distress, this is not a voluntary impairment._

_People with PTSD do not choose to have flashbacks, nightmares, mood swings, flattened affect, and hypersensitivity. They are not weak, lacking in willpower, or being deliberately disobedient. Just as someone who is completely unable to hear cannot listen to music, a person with PTSD cannot simply 'get over' their trauma or magically become better._

_A good exercise for dealing with frustrating coping mechanisms and symptoms in particular is as follows: write down the top ten most frustrating, inexplicable, and/or 'bizarre' symptoms and coping mechanisms. Then try to understand how they may have helped the person with PTSD survive their trauma and/or cope with it. Remember, many symptoms and coping mechanisms were helpful or even vital during the time of the trauma._

Foggy made plans to do that later as he read.

_**Beware of Over-Reassurance** _

_One of the easy pitfalls for someone helping their loved one with PTSD is over-reassurance and condescension. In the rush to make the person feel safe and assure them that specific traumas will not reoccur, you can find yourself saying things that are not true, offering promises you cannot keep._

_For example, avoid promising that you will never be angry with a survivor domestic abuse. In all relationships, one person is angry at the other at least briefly. Promising to never feel angry is unrealistic and will only make the person with PTSD feel that they cannot trust or rely on you._

_Promising on behalf of other people is also to be avoided. Don't say that the person will never have another car accident, or that everyone will be understanding of their trauma, or that they will always be completely safe. Sarah, a mother of her daughter Caitlyn, who acquired PTSD from being sexually abused by Sarah's boyfriend, explains the pitfalls of that strategy:_

_"I always told Caitie that no matter what, she'd never have to go through that again. I thought it was the only thing that would calm her down. And she eventually believed me, and then when she went to college, I was so happy. But she came back on fall break, face ashen, hair all greasy--and she sat down under the table and hid like she hadn't for years. I asked her what was wrong; she told me that the first weekend there, her roommate's brother had been visiting and raped her in her dorm bed."_

_After this incident, Sarah found that Caitlyn's progress was almost all lost, and she had to take a medical leave after a suicide attempt. Their relationship was severely damaged, as Caitlyn could no longer trust her mother's promises, reassurance, or ability to asses danger. She in fact ended up finding such reassurance triggering, and had to come up with new strategies to calm down._

Foggy, after reading that story, always had to stop for a few minutes and look at Matt. Matt, who was reading something, head cocked.

He'd promised Matt that there would be no punishments and no sex, that he was safe, and he'd dragged Matt to a new place and yelled at him front of a stranger. He'd promised Matt that he would be okay, and had to take him to the Bureau and hold his hand when he was raped again.

Foggy wanted to scream, and break things, and make the world _pay_ for making him a fucking liar.

But he didn't. Instead, he kept reading.

_**Loss of Trust** _

_When a loved one acquires PTSD, it is normal to feel betrayed, angry, rejected, and upset at their lack of trust in you. They may feel as if you will get them into a car accident, hit them, and/or rape them. They may not trust you enough to share their emotional states, even if they understand them. They may be unable to ask for help or be emotionally or physically intimate._

_However normal your feelings of upset at this, it is important to remember that especially for people with long-term, complex trauma, their worldview has been radically altered. Their definition of trust and their beliefs about how people act in general can be extremely different than your own; a survivor of domestic abuse may trust that you won't hit them in the head, but not trust that you won't scream at them in public or destroy their property. A survivor of a car accident may trust that you won't get them into an accident by driving drunk, but not trust that you won't get them into a car accident involuntarily._

_Jamil, whose PTSD was acquired from living in a violent, abusive 'mental health facility' for his formative years, explained his beliefs as to why he thought his therapist would hit him for expressing anger: "It's not because you're mean or malicious that you're gonna hit me. It's because you're a person. People hit me because they're people."_

_The only way to earn a person's trust is to act trustworthy. Make realistic promises, communicate explicitly, and follow through on ethical and compassionate actions, even when you are angry or frustrated. Do not demand or be offended by the person's inability to fully trust you; treat this as something they are unable to do for the moment, in the same way that a person with the flu cannot help but feel aching._

Foggy read it, and read it over again. _People hit me because they're people._

Each time he read that sentence, he closed his eyes and thought about trying to reassure Matt over and over again, and Bee too, _no punishments_.

No wonder neither of them could believe him. It wasn't a thing that existed in their world, a person who _never_ hit someone else.

_**Affect and Desensitization** _

_While a person with PTSD may be hyper-sensitized to certain things, they may also exhibit a flat affect or have strange emotional reactions to certain other things. Many war veterans and ER staff, for example, tend to have darkly gory jokes and cruel senses of humor; many survivors of rape can laugh at rape jokes; some survivors of abuse tend to find depictions of abuse boring or funny. Some may even have a lack of empathy for other victims, or find it hard to view their trauma as a bad thing._

_The process for desensitization is opposite the one for hyper-sensitization: in order to desensitize a person to stimuli, it needs to be constant and/or routine. In order to hyper-sensitize a person to stimuli, it needs to be intermittent._

_So for a person with PTSD from domestic abuse, they may find certain things boring and not triggering if they were routine and constant--emotional put-downs or degrading remarks--and other things triggering and likely to set them off--such as the sound of glass shattering or the smell of a particular cologne._

_This can be very difficult to cope with, and a flat affect in particular can be easily mistaken for a genuine lack of empathy and/or traumatic reaction. Another reaction that can be mistaken for a person not having PTSD at all is the 'embracing of trauma'--seeking out the same traumatic stimulus over and over again._

_A woman with PTSD from rape who then has a great deal of rough, violent sex with strangers is sometimes mistaken for a woman who was raped and has no traumatic reaction. A woman with PTSD from military service who volunteers for subsequent tours can be mistaken for a woman with no PTSD at all. Both of those assumptions are incorrect: the reaction of a person with PTSD to their trauma does not invalidate the traumatic quality of the event/s in question. Different people react differently to different portions of their trauma._

_One case in particular is Emily, who has PTSD from growing up in a sexually and physically violent Christian cult, and is known for laughing throughout most of her sessions with her therapist. She is candid, defends her parents and adults in her religious community, and insists her flashbacks and panic attacks are mere nostalgia. She often bursts into giggles, as opposed to tears, when she is triggered, and tends to exhibit more of a bubbly, cheerful personality during periods of worsening symptoms._

_Emily is no more or less traumatized than her sister Rachel, who exhibits a more 'straightforward' affect associated with PTSD: she whimpers, sobs, hides behind objects, has difficulty speaking at all, and has screaming nightmares about the same events Emily finds hysterical. During periods of worsening symptoms, she becomes emaciated and visibly terrified._

_Both sisters have severe PTSD. Both have altered affect. Both deserve compassion and help._

And at that, Foggy actually had grabbed a pencil and started underlining phrases, because that was Matt. Matt was Emily, Matt laughed and seemed to get happier when crazy, awful shit was happening, Matt didn't seem bothered by slavery much at all, Matt was angry at other slaves for fighting back and defended his fucking torturers and--

And deserved compassion and help.

Foggy closed his eyes, and vowed to give Anna somethingspectacular for Mother's Day for this. God. This was helping him so much.

The only problem with the book and its advice was that Matt's trauma--slavery--wasn't over. He wasn't free yet. But Foggy had the strange, sinking feeling that he wasn't being quite so uncomplicatedly good to Matt by letting him act as free as Foggy wanted him to be in this house; he had the suspicion that it wasn't helping Matt fight his PTSD so much as get to experience it.

What should he do? How should he cope with it? What else  _could_ Foggy possibly do?

Foggy closed his eyes, vowed to ask Miriam about that, and went back to reading. This was some fascinating stuff.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from "Gone Girl".
> 
> The quote about severe PTSD being as disabling as paraplegia comes from this: http://clinicaldepressiondormparty.tumblr.com/post/114429976552/into-the-weeds-floorbananamotherfucker
> 
> The techniques Matt is using to reinforce his brainwashing come from here: http://www.elliebeanz.net/post/136416372533/yourpersonalcheerleader-how-to-silence-negative and http://safeword.tumblr.com/post/133510949297/shesgotwhatittakes-shesgotwhatittakes-while.
> 
> The cuffs are modeled off of these: http://www.amazon.com/Black-Locking-Bondage-Wrist-Cuffs/dp/B007W52ACW


	112. if I love you, is that a fact or a weapon?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: in this chapter, Foggy has an intense fantasy of being violently raped by Matt in revenge. It's over pretty quickly, but still.

  
  
Bee sat heavily on their bed, clutching Anthea to their chest.  
  
That was a weird sentence to even _think_ \-- _I sat on my bed_. My bed, Bee's bed, Bee Elle's bed, Barely Legal's bed. _Mine_ had suddenly acquired a new heavy significant, a weight to it, a heft--because it, along with their hair, teddy bear, and clothes, was _really theirs_ , and not something that for the grace of their owner they didn't possess. Nobody had _allowed_ them to go out and build Anthea; nobody had given permission, and nobody could take her away.  
  
It was strange. Everything was strange; emailing the Martie woman and having her actually be kind and helpful, arranging for an interpreter and better ways for them to voice via tablet; emailing the housing director at Martie's insistence and having him cheerfully arrange for Bee to live in a single room by themselves; quietly asking Foggy if Matt could come help them move in and having him help out too, cheerily, as if that was normal.  
  
Being a free person felt like the most dizzying mixture of terrifying, wonderful, and utterly absurd. Bee felt like their whole world had been yanked away and suddenly they were in a new one. A _better_ one, to be sure, except--  
  
Except Matt's careful little bits of distance. Except they had no hands to fall into, no surety. And now they were abruptly abnormal, and they felt the gulf between everyone else and them as keenly as they felt the biting cold outside.  
  
No other free people they knew had grown up never sleeping in a bed--either on floors or in cages or on pads that smelt of sweat. No other free people they knew understood the weight of a metal collar or how a fabric one could be _sweet_ by comparison. No other free people they knew knew, intimately, the pounding headaches and hunger that was your stomach eating itself and the constant cold. The way you started to like it after a while, the way you almost didn't want to be free when that was all you ever knew.  
  
Bee looked at Matt and sometimes felt sickly relieved that their primary owners had been so violent, so cruel. Otherwise they might have ended up like him, fighting Foggy every step of the way to being just that tiniest touch freer.  
  
Not that Matt was in any way free--they knew better than that. But they'd never been so successfully convinced of all the rhetoric of happiness in slavery. Every time the prospect of an owner loomed over their heads like a giant, omnipotent and all-powerful, they could remember how that fucking dick had _come off in their mouth_ , how they had fought back without even meaning to and _won_.  
  
That little bit of defiance hadn't been fixable; it didn't matter that they chopped off Bee's tongue and yanked out all their teeth and whipped them. They couldn't take back that truth or stitch back on Max Hardcore's dick.  
  
It had been a powerful, formative experience.  
  
They sat on their bed, and felt an enroaching terror.  
  
[What if I can't leave?]  
  
Matt blinked in that surprised way he did and turned his head. [Why wouldn't you be able to leave?]  
  
[I get--you know how you feel when you think you might get whipped? Like that, except, I feel like that when I think about...leaving the room.]  
  
Matt tilted his head thoughtfully. [Take the teddy bear with you.]  
  
Bee reeled. What? [What?]  
  
[That's half the point, isn't it? To relieve anxiety?]  
  
[I can't do that!]  
  
[I read the entire student handbook, both versions. Neither of them mention stuffed animals at any point. Put her in the backpack if that's necessary.]  
  
Bee gaped at him for a minute. [People will stare.]  
  
Matt shrugged. [Winter used to say that lambs always stared at lions, but that hardly makes them important. You're free, you don't have to care about it anymore.]  
  
Bee looked at him, blankly, and then finally said, knocking against the bedpost, [Why is it that you have undefeatable learned helplessness for yourself and an absolutely undefeatable lack of learned helplessness for me?]  
  
Matt's brow furrowed. [I've learned the limits of my station. They're different than yours.]  
  
Bee groaned--as much as they could groan, really--and flopped backwards. Matt was _impossible_ sometimes. [Anyway, are you prepared for the semester?]  
  
Matt smiled briefly. [Foggy told me what he wants, did I tell you? And it's all mostly good things. So I'm ready. Bring it on.]  
  
Bee smirked. [Glad one of us has their shit together.]  
  
Matt snorted. [I believe in you,] he informed them. [You'll figure it out. You got mostly Bs and Cs, right, last semester? While recovering from severe starvation?]  
  
Bee laughed. [Yeah, you're right. At least this time I don't look like a death camp survivor.]  
  
Matt smiled, and Bee impulsively sat up, stood up, and hugged him. [I gotta ask Foggy if I can be your handler or whatever,] they said. [Actually, let me do that now.]  
  
Foggy, who was on his phone texting someone--possibly the Marci bitch from last semester--as Bee fetched their tablet and started to type with the new program. It had different voices, and Bee had picked a pretty nice-sounding one. It was more natural. "Hey, Foggy. Can you please write the thing that would let me be alone with Matt so that we could study together when you don't have class with us sometimes?"  
  
"What? Yeah. Um. What do I say for it?" he asked, patting around for pen and paper. Bee handed him both from their desk.  
  
( _Their desk._ It was astonishing.)  
  
"The script is usually 'I appoint so-and-so as a temporary handler for such-and-such, and thus grant to them the authority over slave number something-or-other during periods without my direct supervision'," Matt murmured. "And then the handler has partial culpability in any illegal actions of the slave, unlike how an owner is not culpable except in special cases."  
  
"Oh," Foggy said. "Alright. Let me write that--and, okay, alright. Got that. Here you go," he said, handing it to Bee. "And, um, I trust you, Matt, alright? Don't worry."  
  
Matt smiled and nodded. Bee watched carefully; Foggy was a bit like a large tiger. He was a very cuddly one to be sure, and certainly benevolent so far, and he _loved_ Matt.  
  
But that didn't mean he couldn't hurt someone else--he'd gotten someone _fired_ before and a different someone expelled from Columbia--and it didn't mean he wouldn't, possibly, realize he preferred Matt all to himself. Bee would have to be very careful.  
  
But they could do it. And they _would_ do it, and do better this semester than scrape a C, and they would--  
  
( _Maybe_.)  
  
Find some way to get involved with whatever was happening. Help more slaves be freed. Help them get to this land of breathless air, this place of a sudden openness and a roof so big because it wasn't the roof of a cage but the _sky_. Help them, and repay Matt.  
  
( _Their_ friend.)  
  
\--  
  
Marci sighed as she lay back, her face-mask drying still.  
  
She wasn't stupid, and she wasn't crazy. She knew shit was going down, that her world was changing, and that she had to change with it.  
  
But she didn't _want_ to, and that was the crux of it. Marci Stahl knew herself, examined herself ruthlessly, and every time anyone asked her, every time she woke up in the middle of the night, shocked at how little she was doing to set the world right, she knew why.  
  
Because she didn't want to. She knew she should be doing something, anything, to free people, to fight for rights or--failing that--protection. Regulations, if not freedom.  
  
But the problem was that first of all, Marci didn't think _she_ of all people was terribly well-suited to it. She wasn't kind, or sweet, or nice. She couldn't pretend to have always cared about slaves, because for the most part she hadn't and still didn't. She couldn't be alright with abandoning her entire world and every bit of cash and all these good things--face masks and shoes and bags.  
  
And it wasn't really about the shoes, though Marci would murder for her Louboutins. It was about the fact that she didn't want to live a hard, possibly fruitless life, staring down the barrel of a gun when it hadn't even been fucking pointed at her in the first place. She didn't know if she could make a difference, and she'd rather just enjoy the world while it came crashing down.  
  
But she knew slaves were people--that was obvious. There was absolutely no reason why a person would suddenly not be a person just because the law said so. Marci grew up around lawyers--divorce, criminal, slavery and otherwise. Half her family was lawyers, and she'd known before she could _talk_ , almost, that the law was like smoke, not stone. It was so far from truth and immutable justice that it was absurd.  
  
And slaves weren't treated well, either. None of the propaganda about slaves deserving everything they got and being all happy and smiling was true. Marci's parents hadn't hit their slaves themselves--not most of the time--but when she'd been thirteen and curious and stupid, she'd called one of the trainers Dad sent his slaves off to every month to punish for him, and inquired as to the methods.  
  
The answer--small electric shocks and rape and _Chinese water torture_ and forcing them to write lines until their fingers bled--had cemented all her childhood suspicions. And now, Marci's old nanny had been one of the ones to cut her throat in Times Square, and Marci knew that this was all wrong, everything was fucked up.  
  
The world had to go. But Marci _loved_ her world, loved the vicious success and Columbia University and the prospect of getting to go out and fight and _win_ and be respected and rich and powerful, and she couldn't let go of it. Not yet.  
  
She sighed, and texted Foggy, asking him if he wanted to go out for drinks on the first Friday of the semester. Foggy-bear was funny, and fun to wind up, and once you provoked him just right he was a complete _dick_ and she  _loved it_ ; it was easy to tweak his nose a bit, and he made the most hilarious faces, and he was hopelessly affectionate with his Matt. Half of his drunken rants were about how Matt was perfect, Matt was the greatest, he wanted to suck Matt's dick.  
  
Marci wrinkled her nose. She never had had sex with a slave, and never would. The idea that someone needed to be bought and trained to want her was patently offensive. She refused to participate in that game.

\--

 

 

 

Foggy paced around in Miriam's office.

"I need to--I guess what I want today is, like, for you to tell me if this is crazy," he said. "I want to--I read this book, alright, that Anna gave me for Christmas, it's a book--it's called _A Brief Exploration of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder_ or something, and it's about PTSD and I--I guess what I want to know is, am I a bad person for going okay, Matt's fucked up, this whole situation is fucked up, I can't make him better, should I just do whatever works? Should I just--I dunno, get on his level more often? Or is that me being selfish and lazy and awful? I don't know."

Miriam looked at him calmly and sat back, folding her legs. "Foggy," she said gently. "I've found that with many of my clients, the principle of 'whatever works' is quite necessary to cope with life. The point of therapy--and of coping mechanisms in general--is not to help you stick to an arbitrary standard of 'normal'. It is to help you function better and achieve more goals. That is all."

Foggy sighed and sat down. "I just--I love Matt so goddamn much," he said, heartfelt. "I love him. I want him to just be _happy_ and I want to be able to tell him I love him and oh god does that make me a bad person? Because he can't deal with it in those words?"

"Have you tried synonyms? Or saying in more detail what that means to you, that you love him? What does it mean to you, Foggy?" Miriam asked. "But--excuse me--I don't think it makes you a bad person to want someone you love to be happy. We all have selfish desires often; they don't make us bad people."

Foggy nodded, but his heart wasn't in it. He felt dirty, sometimes, for how he wanted Matt, how he was going to go home and fuck himself with the vibrator after therapy and probably come to Matt's face in his head. But he still wouldn't--couldn't--have sex with Matt, or mention it to him.

But she'd asked a question. Foggy thought about how to put it in something that wasn't restless babble, and said, slowly, words slotting precisely into place, "It means I choose him. If that means that it's hard, then I choose for things to be hard. If it means that I have to compromise and do some crazy shit, I choose to compromise and do--whatever works. If it means I have to do this forever--fight the world and work with him and get it wrong and apologize with strawberries and jerk off instead of getting laid and _what the fuck else_ \--I choose that. I choose him. That's what I mean."

Miriam looked at him, her face so neutral. "Have you tried telling Matt that?"

Foggy laughed. "No, but--I'll try other synonyms. Maybe. He did like it when I said he was irreplaceable." Because people _were_ , that was elementary.

\--

After therapy, Foggy went home, started the shower and his laptop and phone each playing loud-ish music in different rooms, checked in that Matt was at Bee's dorm--safe and sound and Foggy had triple-checked and yes, now that they had the piece of paper, Foggy could legally leave Matt alone with them--and he unwrapped the vibrator, breathing hard.

It was the quietest model they offered, but it was still fancy: gold and gleaming, thrusting and vibrating and rotating beads and head. Foggy couldn't _wait_.

But even after the stripping and the jacking off and the inserting, starting on the settings, he wasn't quite--he was still painfully in his body, not his head, stuck inside his skin and not a fantasy.

Foggy closed his eyes, and _immediately_ Matt came to mind, his beautiful cherry-jam lips and big brown eyes with their lovely unfocused not-quite-tracking quality and the way he smiled and--

_Matt pinning him down over a desk, snarling--_

Foggy gasped, and sank into the fantasy, Matt snarling and hurting him, Matt bruising him as he slammed his head down into the desk and yanked off Foggy's pants, Matt overpowering him, Matt's strength and rarely-glimped fury and elusive physical violence, Matt thrusting into him with barely enough lube, Matt hissing in his ear _do you like that, do you, do you enjoy this, are you so fucking pathetic that you enjoy me repaying you for what you did to me--_

Foggy's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he flicked the button and it was buzzing thrusting rotating--

Matt biting his neck and fucking him ruthlessly, angrily, hurting him, taking his sweet revenge, making Foggy cry as he growled at how fucking angry he was and how he'd do this again and again and again and again, over and over until finally the fucking score was _even_ \--

And Foggy came all over himself, moaning Matt's name.

And then he shakily stood up and took a shower, washed the hell out of the vibrator, put it away, cleaned the bathroom and shut off the music, and opened the window to vent out the bedroom. He didn't want anything to smell like sex and alarm Matt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from Margaret Atwood's "We Are Hard", here: https://readalittlepoetry.wordpress.com/2011/05/11/we-are-hard-by-margaret-atwood/


	113. how people who never have and almost certainly never will be in that situation think people who are in that situation should behave

The next time Matt wakes up hard, it's strange--nobody even has sex with him in the dream.

In the dream, Foggy's only a little bit different. Matt and him have to go to some party, and it's a formal party, black-tie and kneeling-slave. And Matt has to wear the plain black pants and the no-shirt of the usual parties, and Foggy's never gone, but Matt tells him all the etiquette and Foggy nods. Matt gets to shower more thoroughly and use those face-masks and even a little makeup, and he _knows_ he looks good.

And then they go to the party, Matt resting his head on Foggy's lap in the cab, without even needing a normal collar, because in the dream, Foggy's had him tattooed, and Matt can smell the ink. It's like wearing a collar forever, it's like safety and being-kept and perfection all at once. Matt knows that nobody can take away _this_ collar, and Foggy can't sell him.

It's perfect. Matt rests his head in Foggy's lap and is petted, stroked, and taken to the party. And Foggy doesn't let anyone touch Matt--not a single soul, not any curious hand or groping drunken fist. Instead, he keeps Matt in front of him or cradled into his side, kissing him sweetly every few minutes, his lips and neck, right on the front of the tattoo collar.

And in the dream, Matt slow-blinks at Foggy every few minutes, letting him know he's safe and present and aware. Matt whispers in Foggy's ear all the pertinent details, and kneels at his side whenever Foggy's not having him stand and plastering himself to Matt's back, a possessive hand at his hip. Foggy shows him off, and Matt grins with pride.

The whole time, Vivaldi's _Seasons_ plays, but only Spring. There is no explanation as to why.

They talk, and whenever Foggy needs a graceful exit, Matt tugs on his sleeve and whispers into his ear and Foggy pretends that Matt's begging for another little canape, and goes off to find one for him. Matt and Foggy are in on the joke, the only two there that know their secret code, and it's _glorious_. Matt loves it, loves murmuring little insults about everyone there that Foggy hates, loves making Foggy shake with suppressed laughter.

Matt whispers and people compliment Foggy on his beautiful slave, look at how well-behaved he is, and Matt adores it, loves being the tiger on the gold leash. He grins at them and knows he's smarter than them and Foggy is better than all of them, each and every one.

And at one point they have to eat, there's five courses, and Matt gets to sit on Foggy's lap like the very best of slaves, the most polished of dolls, and skillfully play the table like a violin, conducting them with cleverly disguised satire that makes Foggy cackle _at_ the rich idiots, not with them. They don't know the difference, but Matt does.

Foggy feeds him like that too, bite after bite, bringing up the soup-spoon, and all the food is good--caesar salad and amuse of watermelon and cucumber wrapped in, inexplicably, Iberico bacon, an appetizer portion of peanut satay, filet mignon with perfectly roasted red potatoes, and then some delicious chocolate dessert with fourteen fruits that leaves Matt shivering.

Foggy feeds him, and Matt kisses his fingers after every bite, and Foggy smiles so wide Matt can hear it the whole time.

And then eventually they leave, and it's cold, so Foggy wraps Matt in his jacket, and they go home, and Matt is allowed to fall into Foggy's bed and be cuffed there, and snuggles into Foggy's stomach once he changes into pajamas. Foggy lies there and reads, the way sometimes Winter did, and when he wants Matt in a different position he just tells him, and Matt does, and Foggy murmurs _good slave_ and Matt shivers wildly with abandon.

They rest like that, and Matt's almost asleep in the dream when he wakes up in his bed, hard and aching and half-terrified. What on earth? He hadn't even--there wasn't even _sex_ in the dream, no hint of it to come, no fear of it even being a possibility. Who fantasized about _that_?

Matt got up, and realized that he couldn't reach the shower nor move much without possibly waking Foggy up, and sighed. He turned over and thought about first his owners, his most unpredictable owners, about the way Mistress Sharon had been flatly uncaring as she sent the pet off to be put down, about Master Robert's stench of slow death and the sound of his machines as Matt lay in his bed, whipped and beaten after--

After Charlotte. Matt thought about that, and about how one of the baby slaves he'd help supplement their training had been the morning after first being used, their sudden silence and the way even their heartbeat was subdued, and Matt knowing that they were now irrevocably altered, and Matt's erection shriveled and died.

Matt turned over again to avoid the wet, tear-stained spot on his pillow. He didn't like it, but what else could he do? He wasn't allowed to masturbate, if such a thing could even be anything but disgusting.

Matt made himself think about Torts instead. No point wanting what you wouldn't have.

 

\--

 

The first day of classes, Bee woke up at seven sharply, heart pounding. They couldn't remember the dream after just a few seconds, only that it had been awful.

They gasped, and made themselves get out of bed and drink one of the cans of supplement drink they had under their bed. The drink was easier to deal with that most foods, and had enough calories to make them feel full after just one can. Though then they'd be hungry again in an hour, which was frustratingly hard to deal with.

Bee used to be so _good_ at being hungry, and now they were terrible at it. Freedom did weird things to them.

But it was still better, being able to get back into bed for a little while before they had to get dressed and go to classes. First, they had to meet the interpreter Martie had set them up with as a temporary measure, to see if that or just using text-to-speech was easier for them. It was still better than having to get up and silently move around and be ready for when your owner woke up.

Bee sighed, and slumped heavily into their bed, hugging Anthea tight. They were worried about everything, and it felt almost disrespectful to worry about this in particular, but they were especially worried that now they didn't _have_ to do all their homework and focus, now that it wasn't their only refuge, that they wouldn't have the motivation.

But then again, the idea that slaves _needed_ their owners to motivate them--that the point of enslavement was to cure societal sloth--was pure bullshit. Their cunt owners had been lazy, incredibly lazy, having slaves for everything from making them toast to sucking their clits by forming a seal.

Bee suddenly smirked, imagining the stupid fucking bitch having to figure out how to jerk off now that she couldn't order her chew-toy to do it for her. They hoped her disgusting long fingernails would shear that goddamn clit off.

Bee lay in bed, and eventually got dressed, hands shaking. But it was all new clothes, and no hidden contraptions or welts under the fabrics, and they were allowed to just put it on and not have to--

Have to, with their fingers, or bending over, or--

Have to do anything else. They didn't have to, and they never would have to again, because if there was ever another goddamn collar put on their neck they would slice their own throat and be done with it.

'No more masters for me,' they signed to themselves in their mirror, smiling in the morning light.

And then, daringly, they signed, 'Live free or die', and finished getting reading, tucked Anthea in the crook of their arm, and headed off to the disability services office, an hour before their first class began.

Time to live free.

\--

They hit, of course, several speedbumps.

For one thing, almost everyone from last semester stared at them. Not always with blatant disgust, but contempt and that little curl of pity were almost worse. A few looked angry, and more than one of the slave-students looked jealous. Bee made sure to not walk closely to anyone at all.

But then again, nobody could do anything to them with impunity, and Bee marched into classes and seats (in _chairs_ with _desks_ , and it was so much easier to see the board!) and out of them, refusing to let these assholes see their terror. They hugged Anthea as often as they dared, and it helped a lot. She agreed that they were asswipes who would probably fail out this semester and would definitely have ended up dead in a month if enslaved.

Their interpreter was nice, if pretty, and didn't seem to mind voicing for Bee in the slightest. She was a grad student named Trish, with shoulder-length blonde hair and Bee wondered where she'd heard her voice before. It had to be somewhere, anyway.

Trish didn't look disgusted or angry or vaguely snotty about Bee, so either she didn't know that Bee was a slave until so recently, or, impossibly, she didn't care. Both ideas sounded amazing.

\--

And then, after Dr Qasim's class-- _Legal Proceedings in International Suits_ \--the professor asked Bee to come with her to her office.

Bee followed, heart pounding, a lump in their throat.

"Sit," Dr Qasim said, smiling. "If you'd like. I just wanted to talk to you for a minute, see how you're doing. Martie mentioned you were freed, and now you're living on campus?"

Bee blinked and nodded.

"Well, that's very good to hear. And how are you? Do you like it here, so far?"

Bee tilted their head, and through Trish, they said slowly and carefully, "I like Columbia. And I like being free. I wish I could help more people, though. I spent half the break hiding in a bedroom, and I feel like I'm wasting my time doing nothing. It's bullshit," and then they stopped, not sure why they'd said it.

Dr Qasim nodded. "Well, political activism is something many people your age experiment with," she said, smiling.

Bee snorted and without thinking, hands more emphatic, said through Trish again, "I don't want to go around sucking cunt and kissing dick of ugly rich people in suits so they can pretend to do something while making things stay exactly the same. I want more of us to be _free_. I want Matt to be free."

Dr Qasim tilted her head. "That seems like a solid goal," she offered. "But I wonder--I've been meaning to talk to Matt myself, but I don't know very much his situation. Would you let him know that I consider my office a safe space? And that I'd like to offer my help in any matters of harassment and discrimination, if they're to occur? I think it might have more weight coming from you."

Bee blinked and sat back, thinking. Matt probably wouldn't believe it, if only because Bee didn't believe that either. Not really. Nobody was actually safe in all situations, and especially not free people who were _adults_ , actual adults.

Wait--shit--

_Bee_ was an adult. _Shit_.

They shoved that to the back of their brain, something to think about later. Anyway. Back to the conversation. "I'll tell him that you said that," they said through Trish, and moved to stand up.

"The offer goes for you as well," Dr Qasim said mildly. "You're one of my students. I care about your well-being, and if there's anyone on campus who's not behaving towards you with the decency and civility that they ought to, please feel free to shoot me or Martie an email. This office is a safe space for you, too."

Bee blinked back tears, and walked out too fast to say anything. They found the nearest bathroom and ran in, huddling against the ground, struggling to breathe.

Why did kindness make them want to burst into tears? Why weren't they just grateful for it, grabbing it with both hands, shoveling it in their mouth so fast they almost choked?

They made themselves do the calming thing that Matt did, breathing slowly and deeply and rhythmically, and eventually looked up from their folded knees and realized that they had run into the _slave_ bathroom, not the women's.

Fuck. Fuck. Maybe all that shit was right, maybe they wouldn't ever be a free person for real. Maybe it would always be hard.

Bee stood up slowly on wobbling legs, looked at themselves in the mirror, and forced themselves to sign out again, 'Live free or die', and then turn and walk out to meet up with Matt at the library.

Trish left, because it was Bee's last class, but she had stayed to make sure they were okay. It was the oddest feeling, watching her go.

\--

They got the library fine, but Matt wasn't in the usual cranny. Nor was he in the window-nook, or even in the main area. They frowned, and searched, until they found the room in the basement stacks, behind piles of dust and dead tree.

The sign above it read "DESIGNATED SLAVE STUDY AREA".

Below it, taped to the arch in comic sans font, were the words, _This notice is to signify that this room is the designated slave study area. Slaves may not study alone or use any other room unsupervised by their legal owners. Handlers permissions NOT recognized here. Due to recent problems in obedience, this is a safety measure. Thank you and have a nice day :):):)_

Bee arched an eyebrow. That sounded highly illegal, and definitely not normal. Handlers' permissions were supposed to be recognized pretty much everywhere, unless a slave did something violent in public.

But. Well. Alright then. Bee turned to look, and there was Matt, sitting by himself at a table, head cocked. They turned and strode in confidently, forcing themselves not to feel bad. Nothing had said that _only_ slaves could sit there, so fuck that.

[You're working on the new vocab for Torts?] they asked as they put their books and Anthea down.

Matt nodded. [I'm setting up other notes as well,] he tapped back, and Bee sat down, ignoring the outraged and jealous and baffled gazes directed at them both.

Lions and sheep. Lions and sheep, they reminded themselves.

It was almost like last semester as they pulled out their own folders and started to work. And by the time Matt had to leave and Bee decided to go eat, they were grinning widely.

Fuck that bullshit. Bee was still motivated, still them, still friends with Matt. They felt sharper than ever, not having to fight through a haze of fear and hunger and _why bother, I'm never going to be anything but a fucktoy in a pencil skirt anyway_.

And something about Dr Qasim's calm made them curious. Was _she_ involved in those beautiful, terrifying protests? Could she help Bee free Matt or get involved?

Bee ate alone, but smiled the entire time. It was so much more peaceful that way, and when they headed back to their room to curl up under their comforter, they put off their readings and instead started to research rare cases of annulled enslavement. Maybe it would always be hard, but that didn't mean it was impossible or not worth it.

Matt would be free, and Bee and Matt could figure it all out together. Two heads were better than one.

 

\--

 

The start of the semester seemed to go pretty well, in Foggy's opinion.

Apart from that _stupid_ fucking segregated space in the library--which also seemed to annoy Matt, but not actually upset him--everything was very much focused on classes. Everyone was busy and buckling down, and he and Matt barely had enough time to fuck up and upset each other.

Foggy fell into a comfortable rhythm with Matt even with the goddamn chain that he had to use--locking Matt's ankle into it at night and then unlocking it the second he woke up--and he only noticed it with a wry little burst of anger now, instead of the cold rage he'd felt when the law had first been announced.

The first week, when Matt had been clearly itching to go to the gym like he had so often before, Foggy had found a way to make sure it stayed Matt's thing. He had to go with him because of those idiotic new martial laws about slaves not being allowed to go out alone--which were being heavily contested and challenged, mostly by people who felt it was a huge inconvenience--but the first time he went, he'd hit the jackpot.

The moment they'd gotten into the gym itself--and the old man who had let them in had raked over Foggy's form with a dry contempt, but hadn't said anything--Foggy had found a spot on the floor away from the actual equipment, gotten out his contract law homework and his laptop, and sat down facing away from Matt.

"So this way, I can't see you, so it's still just your thing," he explained. Foggy had the feeling that if Matt thought Foggy was watching him, he'd feel like he had to perform and somehow make punching look sexy, or something, and that was bullshit. If it was healthy for Foggy to have something that was just his, it was healthy for Matt to have things that were just his as well, and Foggy refused to take this away from him, especially seeing as this was clearly some way that Matt connected to his dad.

Matt had looked startled, and then smiled, and later that night he and Foggy had ended up falling asleep together in Foggy's bed, cuddled safe and warm. Foggy had worried for a bit, but Matt did genuinely enjoy it, and nothing bad happened.

Foggy had had to negotiate with Aunt Jillian for babysitting wages for Matt, because she had thought that it was ridiculous and miserly of him, but eventually he'd managed to wrangle a decent amount of money out of her to pay for the cab and work--she lived far enough away that taking the subway would frankly be just torture for Matt.

He'd also gotten her to agree to Foggy coming along as well, partially because he didn't quite trust her anywhere near enough to give some power over Matt, not since that joke that he _knew_ was just a bad joke but still made his skin crawl, and partially because watching Matt just relax and be happy and in his element sounded like Foggy's idea of fun.

(Every time Matt just let himself be happy, Foggy felt like his heart would burst with joy, like there was birdsong in his bones. Matt when he was happy was like one of those moments in a movie that felt almost too sappy to be real, but it still made you smile for hours on end.)

And it was the Saturday before Valentine's Day, February 12th, when things suddenly stopped going well.

Foggy woke up, frowning, because Matt was hard against his leg, and then Matt's eyes flew open and he turned white with fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from the summary to this fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/200534


	114. thank you for your interest in a life free of pain. we're not accepting applications at this time.

Matt froze.

He couldn't--he wanted to run away, to scramble out of his owner's bed, to hide on the floor or be allowed to sink into cold water or be back in the bed Foggy let him have, to shiver under blankets or an icy spray--but he couldn't move, he couldn't hide, he couldn't lie to Foggy or pretend this infraction hadn't been happening.

"Matt?" Foggy asked, sleepy. "You look scared. What's wrong?"

Matt swallowed. "I'm sorry," he whispered, regret and fear mingling in his voice. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to, I'm so sorry, please punish me, Foggy, I'm sorry--"

Foggy abruptly sat up, pulling Matt up with him. "Hey, no, what--what are you talking about? What are you sorry for?"

Matt took a deep breath. He had to be honest. He owed it to Foggy. "I know I'm not supposed to get hard," he whispered, adrenaline flooding his senses, him stinking of fear already. "I didn't--it was a dream--it's been happening, just dreams, and I promise I didn't do anything but get rid of them, and I know I should have told you, and I'm sorry," he said, closing his eyes and baring his throat for a hand to choke him.

There was a pause. Then Foggy said, one hand coming to Matt's hair, "Hey, its--you're sorry for getting an erection?"

Matt nodded. He was; he was repugnant, pungent, overripe fruit, disgusting and dirty and worthless.

"Because--because you think--why do you think you're not supposed to?"

Matt's eyes opened again, and he plucked at the words. "It's only--I'm only supposed to if my owner wants me to, and I've only ever been ordered to get hard during sex, sometimes," he said, the walls starting to pulsate as memories scratched at him, dirty fingernails itching at the inside of his skull. "And you've ordered me to never have sex, so I'm not supposed to."

There was a horrible moment, and Foggy said quietly, "You've never--what? Wait a--Matt, have you seriously never been allowed to jerk off?"

Matt blinked. Why would he be? "No, Foggy," he said. "Unless--some of my owners wanted me to orgasm after sex, or during, but not--not by myself, no."

Foggy's hands came down and Matt braced himself for the blow, but all Foggy did was pull him close and tight. "Shit," Foggy said, wondering. " _Shit_. And I'm guessing any, uh, wet dreams would've--?"

Matt cringed and curled up. "Only twice," he told Foggy, a little desperately, wanting to redeem his reputation. He wasn't-- "It only took two tries for him to train it out of me," Matt said, and felt cold all over, sweating.

"Holy fuck," Foggy muttered. "That's--I'm pretty sure that's against the Geneva Convention or something."

Matt blinked. "The Geneva Convention applies to people, Foggy," he said.

"Shit. Okay, I can't go into that right now, but: Matt, let me just--let me put it like this, okay? When I said no sex, I didn't mean you couldn't--you can, um, you can masturbate whenever, alright? As long as it's not all the time. Or in front of people. And it's not--it's not sex unless it involves at least two people, okay? And you count as people. I'm not mad at you for having a normal body thing, alright? That's just--people with dicks, they get stuff like this. That's just biology. Okay? Does that make sense?"

Matt shook his head. He understood the words, and the sentences, but not--he didn't know _why_. Why would he be allowed it? Did Foggy want him to do that simply because it would prevent the dreams from happening? Did Foggy like the idea of Matt becoming more and more desperate, becoming the slut he was afraid he always was inside--

Matt realized his heart was racing, and his lungs felt tight and tiny, his diaphragm heaving and the walls seemed to be collapsing, he could smell the edges of Mistress Sharon's perfume and the wet, naked, damp smell of the pet after it'd showered, feel something pressing into him like his owners' fingers and cocks and the veterinarian's speculums had--

And Foggy was holding him and one hand was rubbing Matt's back, the other was worriedly touching his face, and he was saying as if he was underwater, "Matt? Matt? Matt, hey, it's okay, Matt, Matt say something--"

Direct order. Matt, starting to float away from his body, connected to it only where Foggy's hands were touching him, said with a slur, "Something, Foggy."

Foggy gave a weak laugh. "Matt," he said, and ran a hand through his hair. "Matt, it's--hey, I know you're freaking out, but--I promise, you're not breaking a rule, okay? I am telling you right now you have permission to, to jerk off or not. You don't have to. And you never have to tell me if you do or you don't, but you can if you want to. Okay? That make more sense?"

Matt turned it over and over in his head. "No, Foggy, I'm sorry," he said, unable to convincingly say _yes_ to anything right there and then.

"Okay," Foggy said, and reached for the water bottle he kept on his dresser. He drank from it and stroked over Matt's hair again. "What doesn't make sense?"

"I don't understand why--how it would benefit you," Matt said, feeling too numb to think better of the question. He was floating, apart from his body, listening in as if it was between a different slave and a different owner.

Foggy went silent for a long minute. Then he said, "I want you to be happy, and to--this might sound sappy, but--I want you to be able to do anything that might make you happy, and I want--it's not fair that you haven't been, that they didn't let you experience even that. That you haven't--it's criminal, what kind of shit you've gone through, it's horrible and it's wrong, and I want you to have anything that could possibly make up for it, and that included being able to, to jerk off if you want. I know it doesn't, not really, but--I want to give anything I can to you. Does that explain it?"

Matt thought, a little hysterically, that that sounded like a confession of love. But it couldn't be. "Yes, Foggy," he said instead. "I'm allowed to masturbate to--am I allowed to orgasm, sorry, Foggy?"

"What? Yeah. What..else would you do, then?" Foggy asked.

"Thank you," Matt murmured, and he twisted and arched his back to kiss Foggy's hand, the one that had been carding through his hair.

Foggy smiled, and kissed Matt's forehead, making him shiver and come back into his body against his will. "It's okay," he said. "You're, um. Did you want to shower?"

Matt thought about it, and realized he was soaked in cold sweat, and probably too disgusting to touch. He nodded.

"Okay, then, ugh, okay, light and let's get that cuff off, and I can make us tea or something, it's super late," Foggy said, twisting and clicking on what was presumably the light.

Matt felt abruptly guilty. "I'm sorry, Foggy, I didn't mean to wake you up," he murmured, hanging his head. He wasn't supposed to do this.

"Shh, it's fine, shit happens," Foggy said, sounding sincerely calm. "It's a Saturday night--or, I guess, it's Sunday morning. We can sleep in."

Matt nodded, and shuffled off to the shower, turning the water to cool before he even stepped in.

But as he scrubbed at his skin, trying to get the stains off, he wondered. If he was allowed to masturbate to orgasm, and it would stop the dreams that left him hard--

(This one hadn't even had any sex, just kissing, just Matt and Foggy giggling and kissing, lying on Foggy's bed, under blankets, kissing and Foggy stroking his hair and calling him good and precious and perfect, the best slave in the world, and Matt making Foggy laugh, why had he gotten hard from _that_ , Matt didn't _understand_ \--)

Then he ought to try.

Matt turned the water to warm, braced himself against the wall, and gave himself to the count of three to start trying it.

_One, two, three--_   


\--

 

He first tried to do the same handjob technique, but on himself, and violently flinched backwards into the shower wall. _No_. That felt--disgusting, wrong, bad, not allowed--and Matt shook and gathered himself.

_Try again. The mind controls the body._

He closed his eyes and reminded himself that he needed to give this an honest effort, that if he could desensitize himself to it enough to like it then Foggy would be happier, that he owed his owner so much.

(And a very small part of himself, selfish and weak, was curious. What if he started to like it? Wouldn't that be beneficial if he was resold?)

But maybe--Matt reached for the bottle of conditioner, sat down in the spray, and folded one leg over his head, putting his ankle behind his ears, and slid one finger in.

He wriggled experimentally, and moved it towards the prostate, and made a noise of tiny surprise when he found it and for once it didn't feel like--

( _Hands holding him down, counting the threads in the sheets, wondering when it would be over, trying to breathe deeply through his nose while being choked, resisting the urge to sigh in boredom, counting down from ten to one over and over again_ \--)

It felt, in fact, sort of...Matt forced himself to relax, to loosen his limbs, remember that he was being good, that Foggy had explicitly allowed this, no matter how bizarre it was, and once he did, it felt...not bad. Not like food after hunger, but not so awful.

It wasn't as bad as he had been afraid it was. Matt tried another finger, breathing in as he pushed, and then tried not just pressing on but _rubbing_ that spot and it was like sparks of electricity behind his eyelids.

But that by itself wasn't enough, Matt was still only half-hard with the piece of his body he loathed.

Matt breathed in, and thought about the dreams as he forced his fingers to rub and twist and move, starting to clench around them as he thought about lying under Foggy's covers, giggling and making Foggy laugh and being petted, called good and perfect and precious, about sitting on Foggy's lap and at his feet and being handfed still-bloody steak, the faintest dusting of rosemary on his lips as he kissed Foggy's fingers, about being kissed and tied up and what if one day Foggy used him again but Matt didn't have to perform, didn't have to even smile, and afterwards there were strawberries--

Matt bent over, and with a muffled, tiny noise of shocked surprise, he came.

It felt, bizarrely enough, _better_ than any other orgasm, much better. Those had been...specific, genital-centered sensations. This felt like being allowed to collapse onto a mattress after having to hold a stress position for a long time. This felt like a weight was off his ribs without even realizing it.

Matt washed himself off, surprised at himself, and left the shower. He found new pajamas and as he pulled them on, Foggy sitting up in bed again, he started to shiver and shake and breathe rapidly without knowing it.

"Matt? Hey? Are you okay?"

Matt licked his lips. "I'm okay, Foggy," he said, trying to calm down.

"Uh, not to--Matt, you're hyperventilating, that's clearly not okay," Foggy said, and slipped out of the covers. "Matt, shit, are you--what happened?"

Matt leaned against him, selfish and weak but wanting so bad. _I was so good for you, I did it for you, please be happy with me_.

"I did it for you," Matt murmured. "I tried it--and it wasn't--once, when we were talking about Oscar Wilde, she, she mentioned that a quote of his wasn't quite correct."

Foggy made a quiet encouraging noise and hugged Matt tighter.

"She said--well, the quote was, _everything is about sex except for sex. Sex is about power_ \--and she said that that was true for free people, but for slaves, everything is about sex except for sex. Sex is about violence. And I know I'm meant to absorb violence, but--"

Foggy had gone stiff and angry, so Matt hurriedly continued. "I think she was wrong," he said, and one hand gripped Foggy's pajama-shirt. "I think--it wasn't bad? I didn't--I didn't hate it," he confessed, and nuzzled his face into his owner's neck, shaking.

"That's--good, I guess," Foggy said after a minute. "And that quote is bullshit. I mean--Matt--I don't want to, um, invalidate your feelings. But. Not everything is about sex. And sex isn't--okay, it kind of is--but it's not _supposed_ to be about power, or violence. It's like, I dunno, any other game. It's supposed to be just fun and feeling close and intimate and loving and all that mushy stuff. That's what sex is about."

Matt gave a hysterical little laugh, still gasping out breaths, his heartbeat racing as if he'd gotten an organ donation from a hummingbird.

"What?"

"You're amazing," Matt wheezed, trying to not lose himself completely. "You really--you let me have, have an orgasm, and I don't even deserve it--"

"What the fuck--Matt, okay, if you think that I get to decide what you deserve, then, then here's my two cents on that, alright? My opinion is that you deserve literally everything good. I don't care what it is, if it doesn't hurt you and you want it, you deserve it. Orgasms are one of those things."

Matt made another incoherent sound and hid his face in Foggy's neck.

"Hey, shh, let's--this is uncomfortable, let's lie down. Did you want to go to your bed, or mine? Both are okay."

Matt bit his lip. "Yours, please, Foggy?" he whispered. He wanted sex firmly away from the sweet little sanctuary-bed that Foggy allowed him.

"Sure. And you--Matt, you're freezing, jesus. Let me get you the heated blanket too," and before Matt knew what was happening, he was lying in Foggy's bed under the covers, and was being draped in the heavy electric blanket and there was the hum of it being turned on and heating up.

"Thank you," Matt whispered, and kissed both of Foggy's hands, seven times each.

"You're welcome," Foggy said, and sat back down in his bed as well, moving Matt's head so it was on his pillow, facing Foggy. Matt would have whimpered, except he knew better and as pathetic as he was being, he wasn't going to ruin his resolve and be even moreso.

"She was wrong, though," Matt said quietly, wonderingly. In awe. "I don't--it wasn't disgusting this time. Not really."

Foggy stroked hair out of his face. "It's not supposed to be," he said. "And you don't have to, okay? You don't have to, and especially not for me. Let it be a thing just for you."

Matt trembled. It wouldn't be, couldn't, because then he'd be a _slut_ , and the thought sent him into spasms of terror all over again, everything pulsating and reality melting and twisting.

"Shit, Matt--Matt? Matt!" And that last was a command, and Matt snapped back into the present as much as he was able.

"Foggy?" he tried, hoping.

"Yeah, shit--Matt, where did you go? What--what about what I said freaked you out?"

Matt swallowed. "If I want it, I'm a slut," he explained, cringing, wanting to cry.

Foggy's heartbeat turned from worried to angry, volcanic, enraged. "What the fuck? Who the hell told you you were a slut?"

"Mistress Sharon," Matt tried to appease him. Among others, she had, often.

"The one who had the little mini-court-case between you and that guy over him wanting to rape you in _addition_ to her?"

Well, no, but Matt nodded.

"Oh, jesus," Foggy muttered. "Okay, first of all, fuck her and I hope she fucking burns in hell. Even though there isn't a hell. Though now I've started to think there should be, just for people like her.

"Anyway, second of all, 'slut' is not a real thing, okay? That is not a legitimate category. Nobody is a slut. That is one of those words made up specifically to demean, degrade, dehumanize and control people who aren't having the most boring, soul-suckingly awful Puritain missionary heterosexual just-for-babies sex. It doesn't mean anything.

"And third of all, even if it was a thing, you are not a slut, alright? You are the opposite of a slut. And that doesn't change just because you have a sex drive, like the overwhelming majority of people in the world. Like, some people don't ever want sex and that's fine, but you do and that's also fine. That doesn't mean you're a slut or that I have to have sex with you or that you're, you, or that you wanted sex any of the other times. That is all okay. Got it, Matt?"

Matt nodded, slightly stunned. He appreciated it when Foggy gave him his opinions. It helped him understand his owner.

"Good. Okay. Now you're still sort of--can you tell me two things I can do to make you feel better right now, and one to do later? Just three things that would make you feel better, and safe, or as close to it as you can feel."

Matt weighed his options. He nodded.

"Okay, then the thing for later first. What's that?"

Matt swallowed, and gambled. Foggy was the safest bet there was. "Some collars come with customizable clasps, or tags," he said very, very quietly. "I, I liked it when I had those," he said, trying to not be greedy but hint at it all the same."

"You want me to get you a thing, with what, my name and stuff on it?"

Matt nodded. "The tags usually have the slaves' use-name, and number, and the owners' name and phone number, just in case," he elaborated.

"Okay. I'll look into that. Then the two things for right now?"

"I--please, can, tell me I'm good? That that was allowed, I'm not breaking the rules?" Matt begged, curling up slightly. It had felt _good_ and now he felt dirty and terrified and in so much trouble, so out of bounds, like he was about to be whipped or sent back any second.

"Oh, Matt," Foggy murmured, and stroked more of his still-wet hair. "Okay. You're good, okay? You're being good. Really good. Super good. The most good ever. You're good, you're a good..."

Matt waited to hear _good boy_.

"Good _Matt_ ," Foggy said decisively after a second, and that felt just as nice, if not better. "Good Matt. Thank you. And then the other thing?"

"Kiss me, Foggy?" Matt asked, hoping so hard--

And there it was, a kiss right on his lips. "Good Matt," Foggy murmured. "You're so good. Thank you for telling me those things, alright? Now I can help you feel better. Thank you. I appreciate you doing things like that, so we can communicate better. And then I can just do whatever works."

Matt smiled, and was kissed again and again, held and stroked and petted gently, hugged and squeezed and cuddled, and Foggy said over and over again how good Matt was, how he was priceless and irreplaceable, how he was important and valuable and good. That that was allowed, it was all okay within the rules, that he hadn't been bad.

The fear eased slowly, and Foggy's words helped as well--as much as they applied solely to _people_ , it showed very starkly that Foggy did _not_ think he was a slut, that was not a danger Matt was facing.

"And hey, Matt?" Foggy said at one point. "I meant it when I said you didn't have to do this. You don't have to ever again, or tell me about it, or if you do try it and decide it's not your thing, that's okay, or if you try it and decide you like it, that's also okay. No sex and no punishments. I promise."

Matt nodded, and was kissed again and called _good Matt_ , and eventually drifted back into sleep, dreaming of walking down a road and finding a large crack in the summer asphalt, and if there was a crack just right there in the foundation of the earth, where else would they start to show up?

\--

Foggy was just glad Matt had calmed down eventually.

He'd been freaked out, but apparently being so tired he couldn't carefully choose words helped. That, and he'd rehearsed what to say for Matt's next freak-out, and had decided to ask Matt when he had to chance about what would calm him down, because clearly Foggy wasn't good enough at it yet.

But tonight he thought he'd managed okay. And even though Matt had ended up having a bad panic attack, he'd still been mostly present, and he'd said he'd liked it, hadn't he?

Well, he'd said it wasn't disgusting, which was the faintest ringing endorsement he'd ever heard for jacking off, but coming from Matt, that was almost dirty talk.

Foggy kept on hugging Matt, and moved to cuff his ankle. He hadn't before, because of obvious fears, but soon he'd fall back asleep again too, and he didn't want to take the chance that they wouldn't do it the sole night they were spied on, or something.

He closed his eyes and tried to breathe in slowly. He'd _tried_ to make it clear to Matt that this was a free choice, but something about Matt's stubbornness in doing it for _Foggy_ felt suspiciously like Matt was trying to avoid acknowledging his own sex drive. It was the 'slut' comment that sparked the thought, and maybe it was totally wrong, but Foggy had done all he could do that day.

He fell asleep, and dreamed about making a blanket fort with Matt inside and never, ever coming back out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a Night Vale proverb: "Thank you for your interest in a life free of pain. We're not accepting applications at this time. Please try again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again."


	115. may you think the worst is over; you’ve survived, and may still win. then may the door open once more, and let me in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strong trigger warnings for self-loathing, suicide as political protest, immolation, horror, murder/violence, mentions of child sexual abuse and rape.

 

 

 

Matt feels very, very strange the next morning.

He wakes up uncuffed, and Foggy's sitting up in bed, on his laptop, one hand on Matt's chest. He's careful to make a show of fluttering his eyelashes, of pouting his lips, and waking up pretty.

"Good morning," Foggy says brightly. "How're you feeling?"

"Good, Foggy," Matt says, and stretches, and waits. He's going to be very, very careful, and very ready. Since last night, he's put himself into something of a corner, and needs to see what Foggy's going to do now.

"So, just to clarify," Foggy says, "I woke up, and I thought about it, and I remembered one of the things I ended up doing with my roommates last year was making an explicit contract of what we said was okay and what wasn't."

"Slaves can't sign contracts," Matt says without even thinking about it. He waits.

"Yeah, I kinda had the feeling you'd say that," Foggy says, and there's the sound of more typing. "So instead it's just a list of rules. For both of us. I'm trying to put in everything that's needed, just so that you can--both of us can--refer back to it when we need to. And one of them is that we can both alter this agreement after discussing it, so that as time goes on, we can adapt to new kinds of life circumstances."

Matt blinks, and starts to slowly sit up, a light filling him. That's--it's beautiful. That's _wonderful_.

"Thank you, Foggy," he says, putting all the blooming gratefulness he feels into it. "That's--thank you so much."

"No problem. I made coffee," Foggy says, and Matt shifts to get it after happily kissing Foggy's hands. He goes and then decides, while he's there, to make some sort of huevos rancheros; they've got flour tortillas, salsa, guacamole, and eggs. It'll be delicious.

It is, and Foggy smiles at Matt, and then Matt reads over the rules with a furrowed brow, Foggy having it on a shared googledoc.

It starts with the household chores; the cooking is delegated to Matt, and so is cleaning the stove and the counters. But cleaning out the fridge, the microwave, and cleaning the hallway, bathroom, living room, bedroom floor and taking out the trash are all put down as Foggy's jobs. Foggy's put, under the rules, that Matt's allowed to do what he wants with his body, except starve it, but he's allowed to eat as much or as little as makes him full. It states further that Matt is 100% allowed to masturbate or not, to refuse any form of touch or object to sleeping in Foggy's bed, being kissed or hugged, and even _lie_ to Foggy.

There's rules that say that Matt is obligated to defend himself against sex, unwanted contact, and violence from everyone, including Foggy. That say that Matt is allowed to do 'anything and everything' to make him feel or be safer. That he's allowed to withhold any form of information from even Foggy that he chooses, except for if he needs medical care.

The rules specify that Matt's allowed anything he wants, as long as it's not illegal and not harmful to him. That Foggy, as well as everyone else, is not allowed to have sex with him, and that he never owes Foggy anything.

Matt reads it incredulously over the fried eggs, tortillas, salsa and guacamole. Then he reads it again.

"Got any thoughts?" Foggy asks.

"I--there's--that's too much work for you," Matt blurts out. "Way too much. I can more than handle it--"

"Yeah, but it makes me feel like shit that you're doing way more than your fair share," Foggy says calmly. "And besides, we've both got all sorts of shit to do constantly. It'll be good to have something to drag me out of constant studying."

That's not convincing, but Matt now can't argue further. He braces himself to feel more and more guilty as time goes on and debts accrue, whether or not Foggy is cognizant of them.

Then he swallows. "Well, there's also no section on punishment."

There's a pause. "Yeah, I figured we both need to talk that over first. Because, Matt--okay, first of all, when I say I don't want to ever punish you, how much do you believe me?"

Matt blinks. What? Suddenly, he feels tight, constricted, bound, because there's no good answer to that question--

"Shit. No, that was horribly phrased, let me try again. How possible does a world where no matter what you do, nobody ever punishes you sound?"

"Impossible, Foggy," Matt answers.

Foggy sucks in a sharp breath. "Okay. Then let me see. Alright. Bee, um, told me that you'd prefer something, uh, that the inconsistency of the two times that they think that I punished you bothers you. I'm pretty sure I know what the first time is that they're referring to. But I don't know what the second that you're referring to is."

Matt blinks. He doesn't--? "The second time you punished me was when you, when I had earned being dragged to the therapists' office and earned being publicly humiliated," Matt says, tensing, but he _thinks_ the honesty will help him.

And it does; Foggy's breathing goes sharp again, and then he hastily says, "Okay, wow, um. Shit. I hadn't quite thought about it like that, but I guess--goddamnit!"

Matt flinches and can't catch it, and Foggy must see because then he stops and moderates his tone. "Sorry. Matt, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you feel humiliated, and you're right, I shouldn't have yelled at you or, or dealt with that situation like I did."

Matt feels a flicker of annoyance; that's not what he said at all. He knows he earned it, upsetting Foggy to _that_ degree.

"But--alright, that doesn't make much of a difference, but I hadn't meant it that way. I was, I guess, just so angry I reacted like I would if Candace or somebody had been doing that, and not--I didn't take into account your reasons, or that you're not like other people. So. I think that I want to make it abundantly clear that there's no punishing. How does that idea make you feel?"

_Panicked. Disbelieving. Furious._ Matt thinks, and forces himself to assemble an appropriate response instead. "I--It doesn't seem sustainable," he says slowly, finding words that are hopefully correctly emotional. "That would make me feel like...I was on a tightrope between two high-rise buildings, and I wasn't allowed to know if there was a net beneath me or not. Either way, I could make it across--but I'd rather know what would happen if I fail."

"How does--what does being punished mean to you? Why--how does the idea of it never happening, it being in the rules that I'm not allowed to do that to you, make you feel?"

Matt shifts, and thinks about it. "It--punishment isn't pleasant," he says, to get that out of the way. "And it makes me feel ashamed to have not been as good as I was supposed to be." It _hurts_ , this awful, vulnerable honesty.

But he owes Foggy. He does.

"And, and afterwards--it's better afterwards. Because then it can just be...over. When there's no punishments for a long time, it just builds up and up and up, and it gets to the point where you're about to be whipped and you _know_ you deserve it but it's hard to not scream anyway, and--but after it's over and done, it's over. And you're forgiven."

There's a brief, horrified silence, and then Foggy says thoughtfully, "Thanks for being honest. I like honesty. So what you're saying is that it would make you feel..safer, the prospect of, of me giving that to you? Because there's more than one type of closure, and just being told 'I forgive you' is one of those ways. Does that sound like it might work for you?"

Matt bites his lip, and shakes his head. No, it doesn't, because that's not how people treat slaves. Not even Foggy.

"Ok. I can--I'll do whatever works. And so let me think of something. What's--I want this to be as simple, and quick, I guess, as something like this can be. What's something that's, um, fast and...does the job?"

"It only takes two or three hard slaps to the face for it to hurt enough to qualify as a real punishment," Matt murmurs.

"So--you want me to hit you?"

"Ideally, I'd never earn being punished," Matt says. "But we don't live in an ideal world."

Foggy makes a choked gurgling noise that Matt realizes is a laugh. He smiles too, and chuckles. "So when I do earn it, I think that would help fit both our preferences the most," he says, self-consciously. "Of course, there are many other methods I could recommend--"

"Matt, I--the thing is, I'm not sure--" Foggy chews on his lip. Matt waits obediently. "I don't know if--what I would want from this is for you to feel safer. That's the only reason why I would ever, _ever_ do anything like that. So maybe--what if--what about this, alright? Let me type this up.

"'Punishments...Foggy is not allowed to decide _when_ Matt is...punished...and can only do so once Matt has explicitly asked for it and Foggy has determined that it is...after something genuinely harmful to Matt or Foggy has taken place. It is solely to be a maximum of three...slaps...to the face. Foggy is not allowed to in any way hurt Matt to the point of needing medical attention, and afterwards he is obligated to provide intense emotional and physical care and...rewards.'

"God, talking about myself in the third person sounds so douchey. Alright. That sound good to you? Remember, you can bring this up for re-negotiation at any time, for any reason, any part of it you want."

Matt tries to think about how to put it. Eventually he comes up with, "Your strategy for this seems to be to treat punishment like it's...a necessary evil, Foggy."

"In my point of view, it is. I don't--all I want out of this is for you to feel and be safer. That's all."

Matt nods, and then despite himself laughs. "I can't--how are you real?" he teases, shaking his head and hunching over. "I don't understand how you are--so-- _Foggy_."

Foggy's audibly grinning. "I think it's called having a conscience," he says, and Matt laughs more.

"No, it's--you're like a prince from a fairytale," he says, giggling at the mental thought of a crown atop Foggy's head. It would never fit.

"Yeah?"

Matt nods and smiles. "If you saw me in a glass coffin, you'd probably have taken me too," he says, and then freezes, wondering if he's overstepped--

And Foggy goes stiff, and then relaxes. "Yeah," he says softly. "I hope I would. Always rescue you, I mean."

_But Schneewittchen was safer in the coffin than anywhere else,_ Matt doesn't say. He doesn't say that she was only seven, either, or that the prince marries her after she wakes up.

Instead he just smiles and goes back to eating. Time to stay in this absurd castle. Time to flourish. Time to stop questioning Foggy.

 

\--

 

 

 

 

Matt bit his lip all throughout Sunday, so much it almost bled.

Even while he did as much of his homework as possible--getting a head start on two papers, editing his responses, doing readings--he kept coming back to the simple, shattering truth:

Sex wasn't as bad as Summer had said it was. As she had made it seem.

The thing was, Matt couldn't exactly pinpoint precisely _why_ it had been so much better. Sure, he hadn't had to touch or even be too aware of his repulsive genitalia, and there hadn't been any pressure to put on a visual show, and Foggy had rewarded him afterwards and told him he was good, but that couldn't be it.

There was something about being allowed to do it _alone_ and solely by choice that made it so much sweeter, even if there had been a sharp drop afterwards. Matt had been so stupid and terrified, but that had been without a doubt the best orgasm of his life.

And normally, he didn't even _like_ orgasms. They were momentary lapses of control and sensation that left his senses buzzing and his skin too itchy. And after sex there was always the sensation of a loud, awful, eternal screaming in the back of his head, a helpless animal noise of pain.

But this hadn't been like that. Something had changed.

Foggy had permanently altered him. It made Matt feel cold, a heavy weight in his stomach.

He had never wanted to be ruined.

\--

Jo sat on the bed, and thought.

"What do you want to have for dinner?" Amelia asked her, and Jo frowned, thinking it over, holding the stuffed bunny. It's called Bunny. It's one of the very few things she'd always wanted, and dammit, she needs Bunny to be able to do this.

"I don't know," Jo said, and automatically cringed at Amelia's gentle sigh.

"Jo, this is going to be extremely important," she said softly. "After this, we need to make sure your system's clear for Monday. We can't leave behind any evidence. And now you can order anything you want off that menu. No matter the expense."

Jo read and re-read it, and then shut it, and took a deep breath. "I want the steak and fries," she said. "And a cherry coke. With extra ice."

"Alright. Do you want to do the video before or after?"

"Before," Jo said decisively. "I think I should--I want to do it, and then I'll eat my dinner and then I want to sleep."

"Good. Okay. Let's get the camera all set up," and Jo made herself sit up and look at it, and then they were recording the first take.

"Hi," she said softly. "I'm Jo. My legal use-name is Josephine, and my number is 4567888112, but the name that's mine is Jo. If you're watching this video, I'll be dead for three hours by the time of its release..."

 

\--

 

The tag comes in on Monday morning, and after their classes--this semester, just Legal Ethics and Criminal Law 102 on Mondays--Foggy and Matt head over to his Aunt Jillian's to have a good day for Matt.

Foggy takes along his laptop, and once they get there and Aunt Jillian hands Matt Isayeah and a list of feeding and napping times until she gets back that night, and leaves them with several bottles in the fridge and a cheerful "Don't kill her!" as she rushes out.

Matt's already smiling, and before too long he's sitting down and telling her about the readings for the week, happily explaining terms like 'misconduct' and 'conflict of interest' to Foggy's smallest cousin.

It's adorable. Foggy feels useless, so he ends up doing her dishes, cleaning out her fridge, and then wiping it down once he's chucked the molding food and washed the Tupperware containers. He also ends up sweeping and mopping the floor with the available Swiffer, and even hosing down her shower.

It's nothing that weird--Foggy had asked, one time when he and Anna were visiting her when she was pregnant, if he could clean her house for her. She'd laughed and said that so long as he didn't break anything, he was always welcome to, so he doesn't feel like he's invading. It's not as if he goes anywhere upstairs or even into the basement.

Matt cooes and talks to Isayeah and heats up a bottle of pumped breast milk, and feeds her, holding her close and smiling so widely Foggy feels like he could burst. He bounces her and tickles her and plays with her, swaddles her and carries her around and changes her diaper without complaint. After she starts crying and doesn't stop for ten minutes, Matt figures out that what she wants to is to be flexed, gently, and he moves her like she wants until she sniffles and calms down. Foggy _knows_ this was the right choice.

It's not until almost dinnertime, and Foggy's fished out two labeled Lean Cuisines for them and Matt's feeding Isayeah again when they find out. It's because Foggy puts on CNN to watch a little while he eats, and then he's rooted to the spot in horror.

\--

The convention hall is huge. It's concave, swollen, like a pulsing, infected wound.

Marlene waits. She keeps her head low but her gaze darting. She sees men, women, mostly men, jeans and trucker caps and muddy shoes and snakeskin cowboy boots. She sees them all file in, mill about, flick distrustful gazes around.

Then it's time for her to click the button on the overhead as the speaker takes the podium. She flicks it.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen! I'm so happy to be here today, doing the proceedings. First, let's have some announcements for this years' conference-slash-retreat. Today we're going to have a convocation speech by on our honored guest speakers, Corinth Titan, and opening remarks by Alexander Vukagay.

"Later we're going to have panel discussions on, in order: Proper Disposal of Unwanted Stock at 10, Creative Methods of Enjoyment at 11, Possible Links Between Protectionists and the Illuminati at 1pm, of course lunch from 11:30 to 12:30, Female Buyers and Society at 2pm, Discriminatory Laws and How to Sidestep Them at 3pm, History and Socio-Cultural Contexts of Cheap Buying at 4pm, Avoiding HIV and Other Blood-Borne Infections at 5pm, dinner beginning at 5:30pm, and then general socialization onwards, with an all-day open bar.

"Places, panelists, and background for all panels can be found in your provided brochures. In addition, convention staff and slaves can answer any questions and assist with any matters of need in the meantime.

"Please remember that some of the panels, especially Creative Methods of Enjoyment, will have live demonstrations, and members are encouraged to stay behind splatter zones and wear protective eyegear. If you do want to exercise your 13th Amendment rights, please do so with caution and use our cleanup crews afterwards.

"In addition, throughout the retreat-slash-convention there will be vendors of many toys, tools and slaves to cater to your every need. Feel free to visit them and use this as a networking opportunity. Now without further ado, a man known for inventing the famous and beloved 'Butterfly Guts' technique, Corinth Titan!"

Marlene keeps her gaze on the floor as she clicks the button without needing to be told. His shoes are expensive, his suit pants silvery-sheened. He looks like he should be tracking blood and bile everywhere he goes, but instead he's crisp and polished as he speaks.

"Hello everyone! And what a lovely welcome I've had today. Why, just this morning a lovely young woman by the name of Janet Uriah asked to get my autograph on my pamphlet about the proper administration of the Butterfly Guts technique! Let's all have a proper round of applause for Janet!

"See, what makes me so happy with this convention is the way that it allows us to come together as Americans. Now, there's no insult here meant to any of our international visitors, but it must be agreed--hunting slaves, the most dangerous sport, snuff-bait buying and using--whatever you choose to call it, it's something we Americans have perfected and protected."

Marlene hears the clicks of the locks as the other slaves owned by the convention board as a whole shut and bar the doors.

"This is not murder, ladies and gentlemen. This is _art_. See, we are not perverts, or abusers, or freaks. We are upstanding members of society; we do what's not only necessary for our society, but actively beneficial. By disposing of unworthy stock, by taking our fun in their inevitable deaths, by inventing new and interesting forms of entertainment, we are obeying the patriotic imperative to always strive higher, to always try for something new.

"The Protectionists? They're flailing. The Traditionalists? They're stagnating. The Abolitionists? They're crapping their pants. We're winning. We're flourishing in this climate. When the going gets tough, the tough win, and we're tougher than the two-bit pieces of meat we carve up like Thanksgiving turkeys?"

Marlene, with the other slaves, kneels and rootles around in the bag. It's filled with maps, pamphlets, free sample, and shotgun shells.

"We are the future. We are the innovators, the creators, the gods. We have the greatest power of all and we use it responsibly over and over--the power of life over death. Suzanne, come here!"

Marlene freezes. _Shit_.

But she can't disrupt this, they're not prepared, not yet, not yet. She discreetly shakes her head at Phil, the slave manning the camera, who's going to get the carnage on film and send it out.

Suzanne walks. Old, stiff, very old. No wonder she's snuff-bait.

"Now, let me demonstrate what our convention is about. Here, we come together to find pride and joy, to understand ourselves in new and exciting ways, to spruce up the old marriage bed, to improve ourselves. Here, we come to experience the power and beauty of American freedom, of doing what even our loved ones can call depraved. We are free. We aren't doing this for profit, or for ideology, or out of some sick love. We're doing this because we _like_ it, because it _gets our dicks hard_ \--no offense to the ladies in the audience! We're doing this because we have decided to. We are the ultimate arbiters of freedom, the true Americans.

"Let me begin this convocation with a demonstration, that sweet sound we all love--"

And then there's the unmistakable sound of a snapped neck. Sharp.

Marlene closes her eyes and hurts, quietly, inside her skin. But soon it'll all be over. She clicks the button on the slides.

"Now that was a great opening speech! And let me welcome our next esteemed guest to give opening remarks, a Mr Alexander Vukagay, our most profilic member--"

And then Marlene pulls out the shotgun and stares into his eyes. She pulls the trigger.

"Convention's over, boys," she drawls, and at that signal Phil starts filming as the others all draw their own shotguns and start firing.

\--

"Reports are coming in of twin Saint Valentines' Day massacres, one at the so-called Snuff-Bait-Buyers' Convention in Los Angeles, where all the attending staff and snuff-bait buyers were shot to death by convention hotel slaves. Among the dead are Corinth Titan and Alexander Vukagay, the former infamous for the so-called 'Butterfly Guts' form of torture, involving perforating and tying the intestines of slaves in knots as bondage while they die, and the latter the most profilic buyer of snuff-bait-level slaves in the world.

"The second so-called massacre is more of a misnomer; slave number 4567888112, use-name Josephine but self-described as simply Jo, set herself on fire at the feet of the Lincoln Memorial and burned to death still sitting there. She died approximately four hours ago, and precisely three hours after her estimated time of death videos from the same sources as the film recordings of the terrorism acts that took place this January.

"During her death, footage has shown that Jo did not move a muscle, scream, or in any way lose composure. Witnesses say she appeared almost tranquil as she burned to death, and doused herself in gasoline, vodka, and other accelerants before burning to death.

"The video shows Jo talking into a camera with a white paper background. In it, she hugs a plush rabbit and talks about her motivations for this act. She describes the public suicide as an act of ultimate protest against the enslavement of human beings and a way for her death to be 'meaningful'. Jo also elaborates on the treatment of fellow K-Class slaves and her life. Multiple versions exist in the top one hundred most popular languages in the world, signed and spoken, captioned and described.

"Viewers please be warned, the following excerpts are disturbing."

 

\--

 

"Hi," The slave--Jo--says on the excerpt. Foggy watches raptly. She makes sure to brush her hair out of her face. "So I wanted to explain my actions here so that they can't be brushed off as insanity or meaningless. I want to make sure everyone gets the message."

She's pretty, and has short brown hair in a page bob; she's wearing no makeup at all, and holding a blue stuffed rabbit, and a plain white t-shirt. The background is white paper.

"I'm doing this because after years of being raped, beaten, and abused, of living in a system of helplessness and humiliation, I am no longer willing to suffer. I received the news two weeks ago that I've been diagnosed with Stage 3 breast cancer, and my murder has been scheduled by my owner for the day after Valentine's Day, because he wanted to 'give me a holiday.

"I'm sure many people are questioning why it is that I want to die--free people, at least. And I know that people will say that my owner's a Protectionist, and therefore I should be grateful--but I'm not."

There's clearly a skip, and then:

"I have been raped over a thousand times. I have not lived a single day in my life since the age of four without threats of rape, beatings, abuse, and death, without the constant oppressive weight of being enslaved. Protectionists believe that our enslavement can be a positive, good thing so long as it's superficially less painful--they are wrong.

"They believe that as long as they coerce, brainwash, and threaten us into saying we want to have sex, or like them, or are happy, that this proves that slavery can be good. What my owner, along with other Protectionists, wants is to put a shiny ribbon on a system of terrorism, murder, exploitation and humiliation and pretend as if it's painless and natural."

Another skip--and Foggy wonders why it's skipping, what excerpts are being chosen and why, and he wants to see the whole video now--

"Let me tell you about the ways K-Class slaves are treated. You've probably noticed by this point that I'm holding a stuffed bunny. Her name is Bunny, by the way. This is because one of the things I've always wanted is a stuffed animal, which with few exceptions, K-Class slaves are not allowed. The majority of training institutions in which K-Classes reside only give us a single too-small blanket until we turn five years old, at which point they are recycled or thrown away. Our heads are shaved every year at least, and the hair used to stuff certain mattresses. Sexual abuse begins young--"

And yet another skip. Jo looks steely determined but her arms shake in the next part.

"The idea that having K-Class slaves prevents pedophilia and sexual abuse of free children is a lie. Frequently, I and other K-Classes were raped alongside free children, or forced to participate in sexual acts with them--"

And another skip.

"Before being sold to my latest rapist, I was in a household of one Robert Wesley. You may have read his obituary in the New York Times, but the one in the New York Bulletin is much more accurate. During this time, I had my realization: one of Robert Wesley's other slaves--a slave named Matt, and if you're watching, Matt, I need you to listen--was also beaten, and raped, and treated horrifically, despite him being by far the most well-conditioned slave I've ever known. And that's when I realized I could no longer blame myself for the way I was treated, or blame any slave for the ways in which we are abused."

Foggy stares, and half of him wants to turn and look at Matt, wondering if she's talking about _him_ , but then it turns to a different excerpt.

"To every single slave out there, our message is this: there is no reason why we won't win. None whatsoever. War is starvation, bleeding, crying, losing battles and regrouping--and who is better at that than us? War is working together, fighting to survive, beyond morals or reason or rationality--and who is better at that than us? _Nobody_. Free people are only truly more talented in one way than us: they are _better_ at _dying_.

"If you cannot join us today, live to join us tomorrow. Be brave. Be strong. Disobey. Live free or die!"

Foggy turns his gaze to Matt, whose _face_ \--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from "Prayer for the Man Who Mugged My Father, 72" by Charles Harper Webb, here: https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/prayer-man-who-mugged-my-father-72
> 
> The idea of a snuff-bait-buyer convention was heavily drawn from the Sandman comics, and in particular 'The Doll's House', which has an amazing storyline and in general Sandman is perfect.
> 
> Jo's political protest/suicide was inspired by the protest/suicide of monk Thích Quảng Đức against the religious persecution of Buddhists by the South Vietnamese government.
> 
> The 'it makes our dicks hard' line is taken from a hilarious monologue by Russell Edgington in the show True Blood, which can be seen here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rzt1Es1VCNk
> 
> (Trigger warning for gore in the above video)


	116. there are hardly any excesses of the most crazed psychopath that cannot easily be duplicated by a normal kindly family man who just comes in to work every day and has a job to do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for police brutality, dehumanization, and rape.

Julia Yensen sighed as she sifted through papers.  
  
As the FBI's Behavioural Science Unit Media Liasion, it was her job to reassure and rally support from the media and witnesses, families, and possible accomplices.  
  
And, when they were interrogating a slave, to keep the owners calm.  
  
This one, a law school student with an angry look in his eyes and too-long windswept hair, was proving especially difficult.  
  
“You have no right to do this,” he said coldly.  
  
Julia remained unimpressed. “Actually, any law enforcement agency has the legal right to hold and question a slave against their owner’s wishes for up to seven hours, even if the owner hasn’t been arrested. It’s been three.”  
  
The owner--Julia glanced at the paperwork, _Franklin Nelson_ \--looked even icier. God. What an entitled little brat. There was major terrorism attacks going on--and the third wave of the day was due to hit any moment--and this kid was getting pissy about a perfectly legal interrogation?  
  
Julia sighed mentally. Fine. She’d bring out the big guns--calm, soothing, placating. Her team didn’t need to worry about some hotshot rags-to-riches idiot making a scene.  
  
“Listen,” she said softer, leaning forward, “All that’s going to happen is that my team and the NYPD are going to question it. After they’re satisfied that they have all the information they can get from it, it’ll be released back into your custody. Any followups from either us or the SB will be afterwards, but between you and me? I wouldn’t be worried. We don’t think there’s any connection between your slave and slave number--”  
  
She searched the papers. “Slave number 4567888112. We don’t think there’s any connection, but we have to follow up on any leads. My team will be done soon.”  
  
And like magic, out came Hoffman from the interrogation room, zipping up his fly and walking over. Julia rolled her eyes.  
  
“Hey, breeder,” he greeted her. She sniffed.  
  
“Hey, ass-licker,” she said, and they smiled at each other, their familiar insult-greetings helping. “How’s it coming along?”  
  
“Well, Yensen, we’ve got all the questions asked about the actual connection,” Hoffman said, leaning against a desk. “Now we’re moving on to general obedience, disposition, assessing for risks.”  
  
“Do you want me to question the owner, or you?”  
  
“I can do it, I know you’ve probably got enough headaches to deal with, yelling at Wolf Blitzer and shit,” Hoffman said. “Didya hear about the Colbert segment that’s coming on in an hour?”  
  
“Oh, _shit_ ,” Julia groaned. “Who’s he interviewing?”  
  
“Reportedly, that one abolitionist bitch--the one that was on _Good Morning America_ or some shit?”  
  
Julia went cold. Fuck. “Rachel Kuchakis, from that segment on _Morning American News_? Fucking hell. She’s personable, articulate, and good in a crisis-- _shit_ , she’s probably got the textual analysis of the video already. Alright, you question the owner, I’ve got to go head off the worst of the damage,” and she scrambled over to another desk as Hoffman lead away Nelson.  
  
\--  
  
Nelson seemed like a fairly nice kid, if wide-eyed and possessive. Aaron Hoffman studied him, hands on hips for a minute, and then sat down.  
  
“Alright, we’ve got to ask you some questions.”  
  
Nelson stared. “Do I have to answer?”  
  
“It’ll go a long way towards making this whole process faster,” Hoffman assured the kid. “Let’s start--what’s your slave--its name is Matt, right?”  
  
“His name is Matt, yeah,” Nelson said, whole face chiseled from stone. Good lord, he was taking this far too personally.  
  
“Alright. Matt. Tell me about it, what’s he like? Is he calm, unhappy, weepy, what?”  
  
Nelson looked at Hoffman like he was a monster. Oh, ugh. Dealing with anti-police assholes was always a hassle, and usually Julia’s job, but Hoffman knew better than to welch on a promise.  
  
“Matt is good,” Nelson said, words coming out stilted. “He’s great. He’s smart and makes me laugh.”  
  
“I don’t care if you _like_ him,” Hoffman snapped, annoyed. He sounded like he was talking about a boyfriend. “I want to know how obedient he is. If there’s anything going on beneath the surface.”  
  
“There’s nothing,” Nelson said coolly. “Matt is the most obedient slave I’ve ever known. He would never be involved in anything like what happened today, or on New Year’s Eve. He was shocked that it even happened.”  
  
Well, that was pretty good, provided it was actually _true_. “He ever meet people you don’t know? Did you ever leave him with anyone strange, maybe loan him out to a relative you don’t talk to that much?”  
  
“No,” Nelson said. “Never.”  
  
“He ever interact strangely with any slaves? Have there been any mood or disposition changes that seemed just random?”  
  
“None whatsoever,” Nelson said, lifting his chin and staring down Hoffman. He felt amused at this poor kid.  
  
“Alright, kid, I’m gonna be straight with you,” and Hoffman sniggered. He wasn’t straight in the slightest. “I mean, honest, we both can tell I am about as straight as one of those 1-am-commercial-type ‘banoodle’ things. Your slave is a damn valuable asset. He’s smart, he’s got bodyguard training, first aid, CPR, service slave training, only one scar, little to no genetic predisposition for cancer, heart disease, anything. He’s in good shape and his latest testing shows he’s pretty fucking obedient.  
  
“Now I have to wonder why it is that a million-dollar asset like that ended up in the hands of a broke-ass law student from Hell’s Kitchen with abolitionist parents and a degree in Women’s Studies.”  
  
“My biological mother gave Matt to me,” Nelson said, still composed, swinging between cool as a cucumber and seemingly full of sour rage. Hoffman wondered what was up with the kid. “You’d have to ask her her reasons, I don’t speak the language of terrible people.”  
  
Hoffman snorted. “Now, what do you use Matt for? What’re his ongoing tasks?”  
  
“We’re both enrolled in Columbia,” Nelson said. “Matt’s supposed to be studying, working on a law degree. He’s in charge of food for both of us, and he keeps himself in shape.”  
  
Hoffman squinted. “What about sex? I--look,” he said at the look of pure brimstone and fire, “I know it’s a personal kind of a question, but apparently a whole bunch of the slaves that have gone rogue were sex slave-types, and we need to be sure that there’s no chance of it happening if we’re not going to file an injuction to keep it here longer, and just between us, we’re not. There’s no point, it wouldn’t go through, the recent obedience testing was too good for that.”  
  
Nelson’s eyes were reptilian as he gazed at Hoffman. It was unsettling how over-attached the kid was to his slave.  
  
“What about sex?” Hoffman tried again. “He seem all limp-fish, passive? Does he cry afterwards?”  
  
Nelson’s eyes went to slits and then he breathed in and out and kept more composure. “When we’ve had sex, Matt did exactly what I wanted him to do.”  
  
“And how was he afterwards?”  
  
“Good,” Nelson said. “Exactly how he should have been.”  
  
Hoffman looked at him, but if the long-haired blonde kid was lying then he couldn’t tell. “Alright,” Hoffman said. “I’ll go check on the progress of the interrogation. You sit there,” and he turned to go and grab a coffee on the way. Jesus. He hated terrorist shit.  
  
\--  
  
Matt felt coldly furious.  
  
It wasn’t just offensive and insulting that anyone would think that _he_ had something to with the attacks. It wasn’t just frightening and inconvenient to be dragged from their apartment the second they’d gotten there to the police station. It wasn’t just infuriating that _Jo_ , of all the slaves Matt knew, had gotten mixed up in that awful bullshit.  
  
It was everything at once, and the memories of Master Robert’s household creeping up and strangling his mind, everything overwhelming his good sense and ability to even go somewhere else in his head.  
  
But that wasn’t what tipped Matt over the ledge. No, it was that they were _hitting_ him and then fucking his mouth, police officers and FBI agents alike.  
  
It wasn’t _fair_. Matt had _answered_ all of their pertinent questions.  
  
At first, they were all normal. _Explain your relationship to slave number 4567888112. Explain how she had seemed. Describe the events in question. Do you think that your owner was unfair? Don’t you know that you deserved it? Describe punishments. Was that your fault or your owner’s? How did slave number 4567888112 seem at the auction house? On what date was she sold? When you last have contact with her? When did you last accidentally meet her? What do you know about the recent terrorist events?_  
  
Matt had answered completely and dutifully, making sure to have the proper titles and responses and hanged head. But they hit him anyway, and made him repeat his answers up till four times before they were satisfied.  
  
And then they’d started asking about Foggy, and Matt had repeated like a mantra, “Slaves are not legally obligated to answer personal questions about their owners unless their owners have been arrested and the proof of warrant shown,” and been hit for that, too.  
  
But then the blowjobs had started, and several things changed Matt’s mind from his usual decision to do as good a job as possible.  
  
First, the arm binder bag that they had shoved Matt’s handcuffed wrists into and then zipped up to his shoulders was too tight, and his arms were cramping badly.  
  
Second, his face hurt, and his nose was broken, his lip split, and at least one black eye already fully formed.  
  
Third, they _didn’t have the right._ They weren’t his owners, Matt wasn’t stolen goods or seized property or been declared feral. Foggy wasn’t arrested--Matt could _hear_ him fretting and trying to get Matt out for _hours_ \--and they _had no legal right to use him for sex_ , not with the condoms, not even his mouth.  
  
Matt clenched his fists inside the hot leather sweat-trap, and didn’t swirl his tongue or suck or make it good as they tipped the chair back down and fucked his throat, one and then another and another and another. He didn’t make it good for them, he didn’t get them off, he simply didn’t resist.  
  
It felt--strange, and rebellious, and like shattering glass--but Matt was much too angry and overwrought to care, and Foggy’s fury from the lobby was rubbing off on him. He was ruined for any other owner _anyway_ at this point, he might as well enjoy it.  
  
But then the one from earlier, the first one to fuck his mouth, came in. Hoffman. Matt zeroed in on the name.  
  
“Hey, y’all, only three more allowed for now,” he said. “Word just came in, the third wave hit. We’ve got more leads to find.”  
  
“You’re sure this one’s not involved? We can keep it for four more hours, by my count,” one of the cops said.  
  
“Honestly, the pipsqueak out there who owns it is way too damn possessive to let his slave go anywhere without him or a handler, from what I can tell,” Hoffman said dryly. “Besides, we’ve had our fun, we’re done with it now. Put your dicks away and let’s all get back to work.”  
  
There were angry grumbles, and disappointed whining, but they left. Hoffman put the chair upright, and then yanked Matt by the collar off of it, choking him.  
  
Matt took a deep breath and kept a composed face. No need to prolong this.  
  
“We’ll be watching,” Hoffman said. “We’re gonna file a petition for a microchip implant and surveillance by us. You’re too useful for the cause to be lying around _studying_ what your owner should be learning by himself.”  
  
Matt made no reaction.  
  
“Anyway, here we go,” and Hoffman yanked on the collar. Matt crawled where he was directed, naked and bound and clumsy, a seething glacier surging inside of him, the devil at the bottom of the lake blinking his eyes wide open.

\--

 

 

 

Foggy looked at Matt, naked and with something binding his arms behind his back, being choke-lead to him by that fucking _fuckwipe_ Hoffman, and realized that he officially was absolutely done with everyone and everything.

Foggy cleared his throat. “Where are his clothes?”

“Here,” a cop said, walking over with a plastic bin. “And let me get the cuffs--” and the cop undid the arm-binding-thing and the handcuffs.

Matt’s face was bloody and bruised, his wrists sliced and rubbed raw by the handcuffs, and the way his arms immediately sagged to his side made Foggy want to kill people. Specifically, every single FBI agent and cop in the room, in the whole of New York. They didn’t get to treat people like this and get away with it. He wanted them all fucking penniless and fired and publicly humiliated and _dead_.

_Focus, Nelson_ , he thought at himself, and kept firm the mental image of Alexander Farragut, the coolly composed destruction of a corrupt law system and the fight for justice.

Matt was struggling to get dressed. His arms looked--not broken, please oh please not broken--but wrong, and Foggy moved to help him. He’d never helped someone older than five get dressed before, but it was apparently the same principle, because he got it done fairly quickly, and Matt was still statue-faced and silent.

There was a weird amount of spit crusted on Matt’s face and shirt. Foggy had the sneaking, awful suspicion--

And when he calmly helped Matt to his feet, and shoved Matt’s shoes in his bag--too difficult to put them on Matt, and fuck it, they were getting a cab anyway--and held-walked him outside, and Matt said quietly, hoarsely, “Thank you, Foggy,” Foggy knew his horrible fear was correct.

In the cab, he took a deep breath, pulled out his phone, and dialed the number of the scariest lawyer he knew in the real world: Rosalind Sharpe.

\--

They got to the lobby of their building, and Matt’s knees buckled. Shit.

“Hey,” Foggy said softly, “Hey. Matt. I wish I could carry you, buddy, but I can’t. You have to work with me here. Wanna sit and wait first?”

Matt’s head lolled against his shoulder. Foggy carefully helped them both sit down, and Matt sprawled and slid down until he was pressing his face into Foggy’s chest.

“Hey, shh,” Foggy said quietly. “It’s okay. I called Rosalind, okay? She’s on her way over, she told me that she and her assistant need to get pictures of you and then we can work out medical care. Alright? It’s gonna all be okay. She was pretty pissed too.”

Matt nodded.

“It’s--fuck. I just. I’m sorry,” Foggy said helplessly, anger ebbing away from his voice, migrating to his limbs, weighing him down like lead. “I can’t--I’m sorry, Matt.”

There was a pause. “It wasn’t so bad,” Matt murmured. “Smallest dicks I’ve ever had to suck.”

There was a second of frozen silence, and then they both laughed, and kept sitting there on the steps until Rosalind appeared in the window, knocking furiously.

\--

“The _nerve_ of them,” she snapped after she’d extracted the story from Matt and Foggy, Matt’s quiet _they then decided to fuck my mouth_ after they had _hit him without any goddamn reason_ making Foggy see red.

“The sheer fucking gall. Now, as we get down to business--”

 

They all were sitting sitting on the couch, Matt’s face leaking blood still, him being photographed by Rosalind’s assistant Mariah, a red-headed woman who looked like she considered taupe an exciting color to wear.

“What do you want from this?”

“The wholesale destruction of the NYPD,” Foggy said without thinking, feeling like a smoking fire. He finally understood righteous fury, he thought to himself. He felt it like a wildfire in his chest, crisping his ribs and slathering his insides with pure ivory hate.

Rosalind snorted. “That’s a long-term goal,” she said, her voice settling into an oddly professional, clinical tone, not the ones she’d used with Foggy all his life. It made his head spin. “I mean with regards to this.”

“What can we get, in practical terms?” Foggy asked. He wasn’t well-versed in slavery law.

“Well, considering the worth of your slave and the approximated medical costs of the average human vet--and you don’t actually have to go to one if you’d rather make a house-call, I’ll have Mariah give you the numbers--I can definitely get some serious cash in a settlement.”

“I don’t want--is it feasible to go for something more along the lines of _firing them_?”

“For damage of living property? _Well_ ,” Rosalind said thoughtfully, “Given the recent rash of such suits against various agencies, especially as they’ve been overreacting to the little tiffs in the news--”

_Little tiffs?_ Foggy thought incredulously. What the hell was wrong with her?

“I don’t think termination of employment is necessarily viable. But a more profitable route, and a surer one to go on, would be demotion as well as monetary settlement, and an Internal Affairs investigation.”

Foggy chewed it over. “If it’s that easy, why doesn’t it happen more often?”

“Because it takes a lot of dogged effort. I’ll do it pro-bono, of course, you’re my son, but it will take months.”

Foggy nodded. “Alright.”

“Okay then. Mariah will finish her documentation of injuries, and Franklin, dearest, you’re going to have to keep up documentation--photograph the face every day, several times, and send the copies to me, as well as keep your own back-ups. Keep a log of impairment of movement and any problems that arise, and send it to me and keep back-ups. Don’t leave the country or go off the grid until at least this whole thing is resolved. And _don’t_ talk about this with anyone. It will not help the case.”

Foggy exhaled slowly. “Okay. But in the meantime, how do you recommend we get the medical care?”

“I’m sure one of the vets will be able to do that, or else have them invoice me,” Rosalind said dismissively. “And I need to speak to Matt now, too, child. Go get your computer from your room and start making the log and folder for backups. Get a USB and make a file under a different name, start being prepared to disguise the evidence. Paranoia is a lawyer’s best friend.”

Foggy got up and went, mind buzzing, thoughts racing. Finally, he would be able to help Matt and _get some fucking justice_ in this world, even if it definitively wouldn’t be enough.

\--

“Yes, Miss Sharpe?” Matt murmured obediently, his nose throbbing. He’d been allowed to put it back into place now that the photographs were taken, but it still hurt. His arms were worse, aching and screaming and begging for massages.

“How is it that you’ve gotten so...tarnished?” She asked, standing and staring at him.

Matt had no energy to be afraid or even irritated. Rosalind Sharpe was a beetle, not a steamroller.

He closed his eyes. All he wanted was to be cleaned and bandaged and allowed to curl up at Foggy’s feet or sleep in his bed and not have to think anymore.

“What _are_ you anymore? You were so sweet when I got you.”

“I am what your son wants me to be, Miss Sharpe,” Matt murmured. It was unfortunate, and lovely, but true.

She snorted. “Franklin likes the trip of being the only one you kneel to?”

“Something along those lines, Miss Sharpe,” Matt echoed back to her. He didn’t know, had no real opinion on the matter. Foggy called him good and was a good owner and those were the only two thoughts he had the space to hold in his head at the moment.

She made an indecipherable noise. “Well, don’t forget, once he starts to get into the legal world, I expect you to help him. I had to be a self-starter but by god, it would have all gone much smoother if I’d had someone at my side.”

Matt nodded. He would do anything for Foggy; kill for him, die for him. Either way, it would be bliss.

“Though that’s quite a bit more understandable of a desire,” she said thoughtfully. “Do you know, what’s what attracted me to Edward? The way I knew he’d be _mine_ and _mine alone_?”

_I don’t give a singular fuck about your relationship,_ Matt did not say. Nor did he say _please stop insulting my owner’s father in front of me_.

He felt hopeless and helpless. He just wanted to be patched up and allowed to lick his wounds and _sleep_.

“But then it was just way too much damn work, and he ran off with that fucking _psychiatrist_ Anna anyway. I never would have married him if I knew he was a slut. And then he started getting all these crazy ideas from her about how Franklin should be raised and I had to threaten and cajole my way into doing what was best--”

“Rosalind, please,” and there was Foggy. “Let’s--I need to get someone to help Matt, and then it’s been a long fucking day, can you please let us just, just do what we can and go to bed?”

Yes, that sounded good. Matt tried to do his best Bambi eyes; he didn’t know how well they’d work with black eyes. He hoped it wouldn’t be upsetting to Foggy.

“Alright,” she said. “Mariah, get our things, and get Franklin those numbers. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Time melted, and somehow the door was open and Foggy was pacing and then there was--a medic? A female medic?

\--

“I can help,” a woman’s voice offered as Foggy leaned against his front door after helping Rosalind get _out_. God, she was exhausting even when she was being nice.

“What?” He blurted, turning to face her.

It was a dark-haired woman, Latina or black or both, in nurses’ scrubs, leaning against her door. “I overheard you muttering to yourself just now. You’ve got someone who’s hurt, I can help. I live right across from you.”

Foggy stared at her. “Claire,” he said slowly as the name floated up to the surface. “Claire Temple. You--you’re an ER nurse, you and I met when we were moving in.”

“Yeah,” Claire said. “And your--Matt--he’s hurt?”

“Uh, yeah, but--thanks, and it’s a _really_ generous offer, but, uh, Matt’s a slave, and I did look it up, only medical people with the license are actually allowed to treat slaves legally and--”

“Nurses are one of the cross-trained people,” Claire interrupted him. “Let me help.”

Foggy squinted at her. “What do you want in repayment?” He asked suspiciously.

“Nothing. I just don’t like hearing about people getting hurt without them getting patched up properly,” Claire answered, narrowing her eyes at Foggy. “What, do you have an objection?”

Foggy took a deep breath. “No,” he said, and opened the door. “Matt’s in here.”

 

\--

 

The medic was standing near him.

“Alright, Matt, that’s your name, Matt?”

Matt nodded.

“Okay. Matt, I’m Claire, I don’t think you understood me the first time. My name is Claire Temple, and I’m a nurse. I work in the ER. I have your owner’s permission to treat you, but before I do anything, I want to make sure I also have your’s, alright? Nod if you understand me.”

Matt nodded. “I understand, Miss Temple,” he murmured. He felt so exhausted and worn-down, too much to be worried about anything.

“Okay. Now, nod if I do have permission.”

Matt nodded.

The medic was touching him. The medic had asked him something and Matt hadn’t understood--it was up to _her_ or Foggy if it was okay to touch him--and then she’d touched him only after Matt had nodded, hoping that was what she was asking for.

He didn’t understand. Nothing seemed to make sense. He wished Foggy was standing closer, petting him, murmuring softly, _shh, poor thing, I never meant to make you feel all alone, shhh, you’re so good for me_ , except something about the words didn’t sound like Foggy’s voice.

“Now, I’m going to try to figure out if you’ve got a head injury or not. First, let’s--oh hell. Your pupils aren’t reacting to light, so either you’re more out of it than I thought, or--”

“I’m defective,” Matt muttered. He felt a faint surge of annoyance. Where had Claire come from? Hadn’t she read his file? “They never do.”

There was an agonizing pause, and then she said mildly, “Okay, you’re blind. Now let’s go on…”

\--

Foggy watched worriedly. Matt apparently might have a head injury, and Claire firmly told him about what he needed to watch for, as well as what he should give Matt--painkillers, no alcohol, and something to soothe his throat.

Foggy moved to make tea as Claire washed off blood and examined Matt’s nose. He should have thought of that earlier, he thought angrily at himself. Matt sounded like a chainsmoking fifty-year-old. Jesus, how much extra pain had he suffered because Foggy hadn’t done enough?

He made the plainest kind--herbal mint--and added in as much honey as made it sweet, and brought it over to his dresser and then went back to Claire. Foggy had the feeling Matt needed to sleep soon.

She told him Matt’s nose wasn’t going to heal crooked, probably, and that he needed mostly just bandages, keeping the wounds clean, and ice-packs. Foggy grabbed as many as he could, making extras out of cold peas and frozen corn, and Claire told him to come knock on her door anytime that he thought anything was weird.

“I don’t _think_ he’s got a concussion,” she said. “As far as I can tell. But head injuries need to get checked out. Be careful with him and don’t do anything strenuous for the next week or so, alright?”

Foggy nodded, looking at Matt, who was now holding the ice-packs on his two black-and-blue bruised eyesockets. It made him feel fiercely protective, like he’d fight anyone and anything to make sure this could never happen again.

_Yeah, Nelson, and you promised yourself that **last** time, and the time before that. It’s obvious that you **can’t** protect him from everything._ Something low and bitter inside of Foggy hissed.

No, he couldn’t, but he could try and get better.

“Thanks for everything,” he told Claire as she left. “I’ll figure out some way to repay you,” he promised, and then turned to Matt, helping him up.

\--

Time didn’t work. Matt was allowed to shower for what felt like several years, vomit into the toilet, and brush his teeth and drink tea, and then he was in Foggy’s bed, covered in his heavy blanket, Foggy feeding him more tea and stroking his hair. Foggy fed him painkillers and Matt was floating and dizzy and sleepy and cuffed and so, so tired but he couldn’t fall asleep.

“Matt?”

Matt tried to focus more.

“Matt?”

He grabbed at words. “Foggy?” He tried.

“Matt, I know this might be really hard right now, and if you can’t do it, it’s okay, but I want you to tell me something that might help you feel better right now.”

Matt thought. Then-- “The tag?” He tried.

“What--oh, the--yeah, let me get that,” Foggy said, and then time skipped a step and Foggy was fastening it clumsily on Matt’s collar but it wasn’t on his neck and Matt was _missing his collar_ and he gasped out loud, panic flooding his mind, hands clawing and scrabbling at his bare throat, and then--

“Shh, shh,” Foggy was saying and putting the collar back on, tag too, “ _Matt_ , shhh, shh, it’s okay, it’s okay, I got you, your collar’s on, you’re good, you’re--can I--you’re _mine_ , okay, does that help you feel better?”

Matt sagged, nodding. Please, please, please, but he couldn’t summon the will to beg. He felt so filthy and angry and sullen and scared. Like a rat that had realized it had already eaten the poison, waiting to die.

“Okay. Um.” Foggy sounded like he was speaking a new foreign language that he was trying not to offend anyone in. “Matt. You’re mine. Mine. All mine, and _so good_ , and it’s all going to be okay, you’re alright--did you want to hear about, um, the third thing? They’re calling it the third wave.”

Matt blinked. Well, better to know your enemies. He nodded, crawling as much as he could with his still-stiff arms into Foggy’s.

“It’s--they liberated _fifty_ K-class-only places, um, ‘training institutions’. And then they destroyed them afterwards so they couldn’t be reused and Matt, Matt, the shrapnel is all the things they used to torture those little kids, the collars and canes and restrains and ‘chastity belts’. The only people that got hurt are the people that worked there, they’re all dead, and they left behind a message. _Our Children Will Not Be Slaves._ ”

Matt--couldn’t. He turned his head and tried to just breathe.

“Shit, I should’ve known you were not ready to hear that. Fuck. Okay. Matt, let me--shh, shh, you’re good, you’re so good. Shhh. It’s okay.”

“I should tell you about her as well,” it occurred to Matt. “Jo. And Master Robert. It’s--they might question you about it. You deserve to know.”

“Well, we’ve got time in the morning,” Foggy assured him. His heartbeat was strong and honest and steady. “We’ve got all the time then. We’ll take a sick day--fuck classes--and then we can talk about it, if you want.”

Matt shivered. Foggy took off the icepacks, and Matt abruptly felt the burn rush into him as they were put to the side. He wondered if Jo had felt it when she’d burned, if she had been drugged. If she was afraid.

Matt was, despite it all. Even as he and Foggy started to sleep, Foggy eventually turning off his laptop and Matt’s breathing getting less and less scraped-throat taste-of-latex painful, he was afraid. Matt was still scared of dying, of judgement, of oblivion, of everything always being wrong and for nothing.

He fell asleep and dreamed about Jo, about the night he’d been introduced into the household and Master Robert ordered him to fuck her. Matt had whispered _sorry_ for every pained cry she made, but later, she’d told him nothing was actually his fault at all, her hair smelling like jasmine and, even then, smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a quote by Terry Pratchett.


	117. I grew into it. it grew into me. it and I blurred at the edges, became one amorphous, seeping, crawling thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for child death, implied rape, and forced cannibalism.

The next morning, Matt woke up uncuffed, rose, showered once more, vomited bile and stomach acid into the toilet, brushed his teeth until all he tasted was toothpaste and blood from his lip splitting back open again, washed his face, changed into a pair of sweatpants and a soft shirt, and padded over to the kitchen slowly. Foggy had something out on the stove--Matt sniffed, and it smelled like nothing but eggs and cheese and milk.

Scrambled eggs. Matt felt vaguely guilty about his _owner_ cooking for _him_ , but then Foggy shooed him to the table and Matt sat obediently at his chair.

"So," Foggy said. "Uh. Rosalind called. Around noonish she's going to be here and bring along a, uh, person to look over your injuries and someone else to do a value evaluation? She explained that it was because the more impaired you are and the lower your value's gone because of what they did, the easier her case is. So. Um. And it's about eleven, so I figured you should eat if you're hungry."

"Thank you, Foggy," Matt murmured.

There was a minute or two of silence, and then Foggy said, "Did you want to tell me, or--? It's okay if you changed your mind, you deserve some privacy."

Matt blinked, and a part of him started screaming inside his chest because no, no he _didn't_ , and he was so, so tired of dealing with Foggy's bullshit, but instead Matt took a deep breath and tried to figure out how to lead.

"I met Jo when I was first taken to the house," Matt said. "She was one of the overseers--kind, and she wasn't authorized to punish, so she was still only K-class, not M. She was in charge of new arrivals, baby slaves, and the other slaves under the age of eighteen."

Foggy made a quiet _I'm listening_ noise. Matt swallowed and went on.

"She was very patient. If you made a mistake and you were under her sub-domain, she'd sit down with you after the punishment and go over exactly what you did wrong and how not to do it again in the future. She made sure that everyone underneath her was accountable and took responsibility for their actions.

"I stopped being under her supervision relatively early on, as being a bedslave means that your status as 'new' wears off quickly, but she still made it a point to keep an eye out for me. She wasn't--I had no idea that she would ever do anything like what happened yesterday," Matt said. His chest hurt.

"She tried hard, and we had a good working relationship. But Master Robert was--"

_Cruel_ seemed too small. Cruelty was something Matt could live with, thrive off like scorpions thrived off a desert. Matt searched for a way to say it.

"His tastes were--he--"

The room seemed to be pulsating, beating, the walls folding in and out, Matt was hyperventilating, there was shards of glass in his lungs, Foggy had stopped stirring the eggs and was walking over to Matt, and he gasped out--

"H-he made us eat each other," Matt gasped. He took a deep, sobbing breath. "For--for fun. Not. For punishment. Eat each other. I h-had to cook them, the pieces he made us carve, or else raw, raw liver, _raw_ \--I didn't--he would, he had us whipped, or, or the little ones whipped for no reason. For _smiling_ , he was _five_ , five-year-olds smile," and then he couldn't breathe because all Matt could think about was Charlotte and her cries of _I'm sorry Master I'm sorry_ and the wet noises of her flesh being turned into a pile of organs--

Foggy squeezed his arms tightly around Matt, and the smell of him, the feeling of him, pulled Matt out of the pit of quicksand in his mind.

"Jesus _Christ_ ," Foggy swore. "He sounds like a monster."

Matt shook. "He was going to make me into a pet," Matt whispered. "Cut my tongue in half and sever my thumbs and put me in a room, alone, soundproofed, until I forgot how to talk."

Foggy's body was violin string, a drawn blade. It felt sharp and tense and furious.

"Well, he's dead, right?"

Matt nodded. He was, he was, he _was_ , Matt had done it and he still didn't know quite what had made him make the leap between _I can't be a pet_ and the sound of Charlotte screaming and the way the overseer had quietly apologized to Matt afterwards and the sudden movement, the knowledge Matt had felt in his fingertips that morning that this was it, today was the last goddamn day he'd ever spend with this master, he was _done_ and he would  _be done_ by any means necessary.

Matt clamped his jaw shut so he wouldn't say any of that out loud. Nobody could be trusted with that, no free person, never. 

 

(Especially not sweet, naive Foggy, who thought that the empty shapes around where he could touch Matt were comforting, who thought that his possessiveness was something that Matt only deserved after he begged for it. Not sweet, awful, _vicious_  Foggy.)

"Good," Foggy said decisively. "That's--that's good. Sorry, I know that kind of sounds dismissive, but--"

"Thank you, Foggy," Matt said quietly. "I--thank you. It helps to know."

Then the smoke alarm started beeping shrilly, and Matt doubled over with his hands on his ears before he knew what he was doing. Foggy hastily opened a window and turned off the burner to the eggs, swearing, and turned on the fan in the kitchen until the alarm stopped.

"Sorry, sorry, shit, that was--shit. Matt. Are you okay?"

Matt took in several deep breaths, a pounding pain in his skull. He was aware, suddenly, of all the bruises on his face, of how awful he must look.

"I must look _awful_ ," he muttered, using a hand to trace over his own face. "All bruised."

"You look like you need someone to roll you up in a blanket and snuggle you," Foggy told him. "And possibly feed you muffins and hot chocolate. Which I am totally willing to do, by the way."

Matt ducked his head. "Thank you," he said, and realized he hadn't kissed Foggy's hands like he was supposed to. What was he becoming?

Matt took another deep breath. "It wasn't a good household to be in," he said quietly. "But that doesn't mean--that doesn't mean she was right. Or that--I'd never do anything like that. I would never in any way be involved in any of that, that terrorism."

There was a soft, wet pause. "I know," Foggy said. "I know. That's not you, and I'm still pissed that they did any of that. That they thought that, and that they--they--they did that to you. Nobody deserves that."

  
_I'm Nobody, are you Nobody too_? Matt remembered, Dickinson seeming far too apropos. His head felt full of jangling keys, memories knocking into each other and rattling him like windchimes in a tornado.

 

Matt nodded, and then Rosalind Sharpe knocked on the door.

\--

Foggy did his best to make sure nothing bad actually happened to Matt while he was there.

Rosalind had come with the same assistant and two other people, one being a kindly-looking old man and the other a person so androgynous Foggy had no idea what gender they might be just from a glance.

"Franklin, this is Dr Rhodes, a celebrated human veterinarian who's testified before, and this is Aeryn Iglesias, a value-evaluation expert who's worked with me before. Both of them are going to help us blow the Feds and NYPD all the way back to the Middle Ages," she said, a sharklike smile on her red lips.

Matt's head had tilted at the mention of Rhodes, and Foggy shook his hand.

"Good to meet you," Dr Rhodes said, a gentle smile at the edges of his face. He looked kind of like Santa Claus, if Santa Claus had shaved and put on bifocals and a pair of jeans with a plain blue polo shirt. "I've examined your slave before at several auction houses. Do I have your permission to do a workup and evaluate the damage done?"

"Yeah," Foggy said. "Uh, sure."

"Alright then," Dr Rhodes said. He put down his bag on the table, washed his hands up to his elbows in visibly streaming water, dried them off with paper towels, and went over to Matt. "Nice to see you again," he said cheerfully. "Damn, you look a mess. Let's start with the basics. I need good data, so flap your hand when it hurts..."

Foggy jerked his gaze back to Iglesias, who had cleared their throat. "Mr Nelson," they said, their voice as completely not gendered as before, in a soft Mexican accent. "After the doctor, I will do evaluation. I work with auction houses, private sales, all types of thing. I cannot do full evaluation, but first, is information in these currently true?"

They held out a file containing a stack of papers. "Uh, let me go over them," Foggy said, juggling the papers. Mariah handed him a pen.

"Yes, yes, go over them, and then Aeryn can do the estimation of lowered price," Rosalind said. "But I do also have good news. Let's all sit down, first."

They made their way to the living room. Foggy put the papers down on his lap and looked at Rosalind as she swept the seat off the couch and sat; Iglesias took a kitchen chair over and Mariah stood, tapping away at an iPhone.

"My sources in the FBI as well as the NYPD have informed me that multiple of the offending officers and agents have a history of such offenses. Agent Aaron Hoffman in particular has multiple black marks on him, and four of the NYPD officers who are listed as interrogating your slave last night have had IA investigations brought against them.

"Of course, there wasn't sufficient consequences, clearly, but it is good for our side--I can argue that since fines and investigations and even demotions haven't stopped their behavior, they need to be more harshly punished. Now, as for the actual court appearances, there's two other pieces of good news.

"One, since you've got documented places to be--law school--I can file the petition for you not to have to appear, since it's a civil suit and not a criminal case, and two, Hoffman's team in the Behavioural Science Unit have filed a petition with the US Attorney's Office to microchip Matt--"

Foggy's head jerked up from where he'd been absently staring at the papers, outraged. "They fucking _what_ \--"

"Don't panic. This is good news. The recent obedience testing, coupled with the fact that only two of several hundred of those petitions have ever been granted--and that was with the Bush administration and their many fuckups--means that I can use this to make a case for paranoia and unfair harassment and surveillance on you.

"The Feds trying to track private property to spy on free citizens is not a thing that anyone is in favor of, especially now that people are chafing against the martial laws--which will probably be repealed in the next month or so. One of my partners is suing the state of New York for constitutional violations of privacy, slave ownership, and ease of movement on behalf of one of our longest-term clients, and the ACLU is taking on a flux of similar cases as well."

Foggy smiled. "So the prospects are good?"

"Very. And once Hoffman's sued and his and his teams' reputation is tanked, other people will come forward, and that's where I can move in. I've always like destroying people's lives, so thank you, Franklin, for giving me the opportunity."

Foggy stared at her, and decided not to engage. He started flipping through the papers, most of which were things about what Matt could do, and there weren't a whole lot of things on there that Foggy wasn't sure of. _Tend to a sick prepubescent child and act appropriately to call emergency services if necessary_ and _cause an orgasm in a healthy female adult with only oral methods in a quick period of time_ stuck out to Foggy, and he shut the file.

"Yeah, Matt could do all that before last night."

Iglesias squinted at him. Their clothes were a pantsuit, dark brown, with navy blue pinstripes on the blazer, and a crisp white shirt. Their hair was short, black, and plain. "You are sure."

"Well, I don't know about the things I've never seen him do, but I'm pretty solid on it, yeah," Foggy said.

They looked annoyed. "Well then. After doctor, I go. Examine damage. Bruises will be big factor in how much money you get--less pretty, less money."

Foggy felt nauseous. "Okay," he said, taking a deep breath. _For Matt, for Matt,_ he chanted inside his head. He was doing all of this _for Matt_.

Rosalind watched, eyes reptilian.

\--

Matt did what was asked of him, and afterwards, Dr Rhodes put the swabs inside his kit and stood up.

"Your boy's still nice and tame," Dr Rhodes told Foggy. "Though he's got what I would guess to be multiple hairline fractures, and if the nose gets bashed much more it'll require surgery to straighten it out. But if you take care of the facial wounds nothing'll scar. I'd recommend a full workup on the head, though--x-rays, MRI, CT scan, everything. Here's the number for my place."

"I'll make the arrangements and pay for it," Rosalind Sharpe said. "Send the bill to me, Stacey."

"Will do, Rose. And Franklin, be careful with your boy, alright? If you're gonna fuck him, do it with pillows between his head and the headboard. If he gets any migraines, let him have the pills and sleep. Plenty of hydration, too, and not too much walking around or anything. I would recommend waiting on fucking his mouth or anything to do with that face until the STI results come back and you get a full blood panel done as well. Just use the left hand trick, and don't try and make him do anything strenuous or vigorous. He is not up for it."

Foggy sounded flushed and angry and embarrassed. "Noted."

"No need to be all snippy about it, I'm a vet, I see all kinds of things all the time," Dr Rhodes said pleasantly, shook hands with Rosalind Sharpe, and left.  
  
"Alright, slave. What is your name?"

"Matt, Honorable Evaluator," Matt murmured, remembering the protocols for this ritual.

"Good boy. Alright. I will only be doing difference evaluation, not full. Obey me and we will have no problem."

Matt nodded. "Understood, Honorable Evaluator," he said quietly.

"Good boy. Quite tame. Now, let us begin..."

\--

Iglesias's work took about an hour, at the end of which Foggy's stomach was grumbling and he felt even sicker. Mariah had muttered to Rosalind about four different things, and Foggy had signed papers for the petition for him not to have to appear in court and papers for the complaint and had worked out a day for Matt to come in and have an MRI, CT scan, x-rays, and a full blood panel done at the clinic Dr Rhodes operated at.

He felt exhausted already, but hopeful. Rosalind's case looked solid even to his untrained eyes, and Matt seemed more put together now that he was being given a flurry of orders, one after another.

"Good boy," Iglesias proclaimed for the final time. "Alright. I would say value is two and quarter million shaved off, for bruises on pretty face and no fucking mouth. Possibility of STDs and inconvenience as well. Plus pain and might cause more migraines. Call me if you want full evaluation, ever," they said, and handed Rosalind a paper with carefully printed letters.

"My report. And copy of it for you," and handed Foggy one as well. It had their name and number at the top. It still gave no clues as to gender.

"Thank you, Aeryn," Rosalind said with a warm smile. How was she so able to be competent with other people but unpredictably mean to Foggy? "Send the invoice to my office."

"I will. Another time, Rosalind," Iglesias said, and left.

"Alright," Rosalind said, closing the file. "I'll need to go and chase more information, put together more puzzle pieces. The medical eval is on Friday after classes, correct?"

Foggy nodded.

"Good. I'll meet you at the clinic to get faster results and pay the invoice upfront. Now, go to your classes _tomorrow_ , even if Matt can't. Don't talk about the case, that won't help your image. You need to seem reasonable," she warned him, gathered her things, and paused before leaving.

"And in the future, Franklin, we ought to have a discussion. You and me, about your future and your career. I have a lot of strings that I can pull."

_Like a spider eating a bird,_ Foggy thought dryly. "Sure, maybe," he said.

Rosalind huffed and finally left, the door closing sharply behind her.

"Matt?"

 

\--

 

  
Matt took a deep breath and angled his head towards Foggy.

"I wasn't kidding about the whole 'wrap you up in blankets and cuddle you to death' thing," Foggy informed him, and then paused. "Unless you'd actually rather not. I don't want to smother you."

Matt held in his arched eyebrow. "That is kind of my purpose, to be smothered," Matt said, aiming for teasing. "Dolls are meant to be spoiled."

Foggy made a noise that was half hopeless amusement and half hopelessness. "Yeah, okay. Let's--I'll get us some sandwiches from that place, and you can go lie down until I get back. It'll take me ten minutes, and then let's each and watch another movie. There's one I love, it's kind of fucked-up but it has a happy ending. Have you ever seen _But I'm A Cheerleader_?"

Matt shook his head and winced.

"Okay, then you _definitely_ need to see it."

"Is it about cheerleaders?" Matt asked curiously.

"It is a work of genius and I will die defending it," Foggy told him half-seriously, mostly-joking, and left.

Matt took the implicit order, stumbled to his bed, and curled up on it, a taste of raw meat and human blood in his mouth though he'd brushed his teeth over and over again, remembering everything.

_Forgetting is so long_ , he remembered from Neruda. But he hadn't loved Jo, or Charlotte, or that household. The idea seemed to apply to everything, even the places that Matt would rather have escaped.

Maybe it was because once you lived somewhere, you became a part of it, you and it oozing together into one flesh, like sex. Like power. Like violence.

Like the anger churning in his gut at the expense and stress and inconvenience this was costing Foggy. Matt closed his eyes and started to meditate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is quote from Marya Hornbacher's memoir "Madness: A Bipolar Life". The 'it' is bipolar disorder.
> 
> The referenced poems by Matt are "I’m Nobody! Who are you? (260)" by Emily Dickinson, here: https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/im-nobody-who-are-you-260 
> 
> and "Tonight I Can Write The Saddest Lines" by Pablo Neruda, here: http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tonight-i-can-write-the-saddest-lines/


	118. sorry I ate your heart. I wanted something to belong to me.

 

 

 

Foggy came back with three sandwiches--part of him was worried Matt would still be hungry after just one, a different part of him was worried _he'd_ still be hungry, and still a different part of him had a strange, twitchy urge to stock up on food.

He walked up the stairs with effort, smiled and chatted with one of the women on the floor beneath his, Matt's, and Claire's, and went inside his own apartment, sighing with pleasure at getting to lock the door and put down the bags. Sodas were heavier than he expected, especially since--

Foggy realized that _Matt_ had been carrying them, always taking the heaviest bag or box, and felt abruptly sick and guilty. He closed his eyes, remembering an exercise he'd done with Miriam to help understand Matt more, and a section from the PTSD book Anna had gotten him.

_Fear Responses_

_One of the common myths is that there are only two reactions to a danger stimuli: fight or flight. This is incorrect._

_There are, in fact, many different fear responses, which can be roughly divided into: fight, flight, freeze, and fawn._

_The 'freeze' response is the one most likely to cause PTSD later on, though any response may contribute to the formation of PTSD in response to a traumatic event. During the freeze response, a person does not take action, instead freezing, going still, or not reacting._

_The 'fawn' response is often very stigmatized, and tends to contribute to PTSD as well as other mental health injuries following traumatic events or environments. During the fawn response, a person tends to act excessively submissive or try very hard to please the person in power, essentially trying to soothe away the danger stimulus._

_Remember, all different four responses are legitimate survival responses that can help people survive extremely dangerous situations. Problems arise, however, when a person's initial reflex is the incorrect one, and/or they become unable to respond differently. The fawn response in particular tends to become habitual, as does the freeze response. This is very likely to take place if a response is rewarded, ie successful. If a person freezes during a dangerous situation--say, a school shooting--and this saves their life, they will often tend to freeze in other dangerous situations._

_With PTSD in particular, it can require a lot of work for a person to 'unlock' the other responses, so to speak. In addition, the person with PTSD may feel that so many things are danger stimuli that they constantly respond with fawn, freeze, fight or flight--leading to often frustrating or emotionally difficult situations._

_For example, it can be extremely hard for a person with PTSD and an ingrained fawn reaction to speak up about pain or discomfort, or stop acting submissive and trying to seek others' approval. It's important to remember that this behavior is an attempt at survival, not an insult to others._

Foggy breathed, and thought about how that thing might have helped Matt before, like he'd practiced with Miriam. Well, if Matt didn't take the heavier bag, that might have been seen as him not being good enough, and that could get him punished, like being whipped or _forced to eat human flesh_ , and oh god, Foggy suddenly wanted to vomit.

He almost wouldn't have believed it, except that this was _Matt_ , who would never lie to him.

Foggy cleared his throat, and then thought better of it, and walked into the bedroom. He found Matt laying on his bed, face soft and peaceful as if he was asleep.

"Hey?" Foggy asked quietly. He wanted to let Matt sleep, but Matt hadn't eaten anything all day, not since Foggy had made a mess of curdled, disgusting, burnt eggs and thrown it out, and Matt needed to eat. The vet _douchebag_ had left written instructions, one of which included making Matt eat and writing down any nausea.

"Hey, Matt," Foggy coaxed, and Matt instantly opened his eyes and sat up.

Foggy looked at him in the high noon sunlight, bedheaded still, mussed from lying down, in sweatpants and a soft Columbia t-shirt, and felt a surge of gratefulness that he got to have Matt--even just be around him.

"Hey," Foggy said. "How are you feeling?"

Matt licked his lips. Foggy dreamed about those lips. "I'm okay, Foggy," he said.

"Yeah? I got food and a great movie," Foggy said brightly, hoping to inject as much cheer as he could. _But I'm A Cheerleader_ was great, it always made Foggy feel full of spring-songs and hope.

Matt smiled, and stood up slowly. His face was soaked in bruises, like a painter had been dabbing on purple and black and blue and hadn't wiped it off. It made Foggy's face hurt in sympathy.

\--

Matt made his way to the living room, and arranged himself to be sitting up next to Foggy, their legs touching. He made himself keep his eyes open even as they wanted to drift shut; he wasn't allowed to sleep yet, it wasn't night.

The sandwich was fine--turkey, touched by rubber gloves, bacon, touched by rubber gloves, not very crispy, lettuce, poorly chiffonaded, tomato, a day or so underripe, honey mustard, chemical-artificial mix, all on long, soft white bread with a very plain yeast.

A part of Matt longed, suddenly and stupidly, for some of the things he'd cooked before, for Summer's special broth she made when he hadn't felt well. For her organic-honey-splashed tea, willow bark and valencia rind and allspice, for her rumballs that tasted like her hands, for her hand rubbing his back and telling him he was doing the best he could.

A different part of him wanted to call her and scream at her, to say _how dare you teach me that sex was so bad when I had to have so much of it_ , to sob out how much he was _trying_ , and he'd _been_ good, he hadn't done anything wrong and he'd been hurt nonetheless.

But then Foggy's hand was gently patting his leg. "Matt?" his owner's voice sounded cautious. "Matt, are you--buddy, are you okay?"

Matt nodded, trying to push back his brimming eyes by force. Fuck. He didn't want any of these emotions, and he hadn't been able to do a full meditation because Foggy had interrupted it, and he just--

He took a deep breath and a step back out of his skin. Suddenly everything was muted, softer and further away. The subtler tastes of the sandwich were absent. His hearing pulled away just a tad. Matt nodded and made himself pay attention to the movie. It might be important later.

\--

_But I'm A Cheerleader_ was a very odd movie, as it turned out. First of all, it dealt with the conversion camps that Matt had half-thought were a myth--didn't parents just _sell_ their unwantedly sexual offspring?

But then the rest of it was strange as well. It veered between brightly cheerful and deeply horrifying, between people clearly intending to try and amputate parts of themselves and people referring to it as sacred cosmetic surgery. Foggy described the pinks and blues, the haircuts and longing glances.

Matt felt very homesick during most of it.

And the end was so, so strangely sweet--Megan's _awful_ cheer, what on earth was she thinking, Matt could have made one up for her that would have been so much better, and the tension, the anticipation, and Graham making a choice.

Matt's guts twisted. He felt a lump in his throat, and his eyes were burning, the tear ducts secreting acid.

"Hey? Matt?" Foggy asked from beside him, winding an arm around his shoulders, which screamed at the touch. "You okay? You look like you want to cry."

_I **don't** ,_ Matt refrained from snapping. He hated crying. He couldn't abide it from himself in the slightest.

"I'm fine, Foggy," he made himself murmur demurely, curling up on himself. He wanted to sleep. Maybe he wouldn't feel so shaky after a nap.

But clearly Foggy wanted him to keep interacting. Matt felt himself start to drift further and further away, floating off out the window, seeking the blue sky Foggy had described at the end, maybe to a meeting-room where parents atoned--as if such a place even existed.

\--

Bee knocked on the door, fist shaking weakly, Anthea squeezed in the bar of their other arm. Their head throbbed like a drum with terror, their heart screaming and slamming itself against a door. _Matt, Matt, Matt_ , where was he, where was their best friend, the only friend they had in the world, why wasn't he in class, Matt _never_ missed class--

Foggy Nelson opened the door.

"Where's Matt? I have notes and his homework, Dr Qasim says it's okay," they made the stupid robotic voice say. It was better than the one before, but so ugly and bland and wrong. It was frustrating. Bee couldn't make it sound any which way.

"Uh, Matt's in here," he said, blinking. "We--I--uh, shit happened, he's, well, he's fine, I guess, except that today was just not going to happen."

What the goddamn shit did _that_ mean? "What?"

"Uhm," Foggy said, "Come in, and thanks for the notes, I'm not sure if Matt is up for visitors--"

Bee rolled their eyes and walked in past him, shoving to the living room. Matt was sitting on the couch, looking like a slave who'd gotten the _shit_ kicked out of him, and for one terror-wracked second Bee thought _oh god Nelson snapped_ , because they always did, every time an owner thought they loved a slave it always ended with a broken corpse and a decommissioning certification--

But then Matt explained, "The NYPD picked me up after the video aired and Jo--"

And wasn't _that_ interesting, him using Jo's name and not her use-name? Bee filed that away.

"--named me. They, ah, took some liberties with my face and mouth."

Bee felt a flush of angry horror, and thrust Anthea into Matt's arms. "Hold her," their tablet said, and they dropped their backpack on the ground, yanked off their coat, tossed it over their bag, kicked off their shoes and moved Matt to be lying down and climbed on top of him, shielding him the way slaves did for each other, the one on top closer to the danger and the one below injured and in need of hiding.

Foggy, from where he was awkwardly standing, looked mystified. Bee sighed softly, and said, [Fuck the police.]

"Truer words have never been said," Matt muttered, looking sullen. Bee wondered if he was finally going to admit to himself that he had emotions that weren't perfect and appropriate and catered. Maybe.

[Foggy wasn't pissed at you.] It was a statement.

"No," Matt murmured, and one hand was nervously stroking Anthea's incredibly soft fur. "I'm quite alright."

[You look like an abolitionist poster about the teeming tragedy of our tragic lives which are tragic,] Bee teased.

Matt's nose wrinkled. "Oh _god_ ," he muttered. "That bad?"

[Add in some tragic semen and tragic blood and look more scared and you'll be the next model,] Bee snarked, and Matt groaned out loud.

\--

Foggy was glad that at least _someone_ was supporting Matt, and then there was a second knock at the door. He went to open it, and found Marci standing there, holding a bottle of mango-flavored Malibu rum and a bag of fries, arching an eyebrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter titles comes from a poem, here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/140812385522/sometimestuesday-the-kid-says-on-average-a


	119. the lies that could have brined my insides to bitterness/didn’t.

Foggy stared at Marci, and then at the rum, and then back up at Marci.

"What?"

She rolled her eyes. Her dark brown eyeliner glinted faintly, like bronze. "You weren't in classes today, and neither was your ramora. So either he's sick and you're sick, you're sick and he has to stay here and be your Florence Nightengale, he's sick and you've got some strange sexual tastes, you finally decided to fuck him for hours on end, or something else is going on. I have rum I need to get rid of by tomorrow and I love drama."

Foggy focused on the important part of that sentence. "Free rum?"

"Free rum. It's good shit, it's just that my mother will get all dramatic about me not having any 'good' alcohol and get into another idiotic argument with my father about him not buying me enough scotch--which I don't even _like_ \--and then I'll end up with another bottle of vermouth that will just make me depressed. So, free rum, are you going to drink it with me or not?"

"Not the whole bottle, but yeah," Foggy said, deciding to make a bad life choice. Sometimes those were necessary to _have_ a life in which to make poor decisions.

Marci grinned victoriously and strode in past Foggy, casually entitled and almost swaggering as she put the rum and fries down and started looking in the cabinets. "Where do you keep the good glasses?" she asked, frowning.

Matt's voice came floating from the living room. "In the cabinet two left of the one above the stove, Miss Stahl."

Foggy glanced again at Matt and Bee. Bee was telling Matt something, a serious look on their face, and Matt didn't look like he wanted them to get off of him--which was odd, because Foggy didn't _think_ Matt was particularly cuddly with anyone, he rarely took any initiative in touching people--

_Probably because he's scared of being hurt if he does, you **idiot**_ , the thinking part of Foggy's brain chimed in.

He blinked and pushed that thought to the side for another time. Matt looked fine, not squashed or scared--probably because it was _Bee_ , who despite gaining enough weight to no longer look like a corpse was still small and thin.

"Alright, let's try an old standby," Marci said, rummaging through the fridge and coming over with a bottle of apple juice and a can of Sprite. "Where's the blender?"

"In the cabinet under the sink, Miss Stahl," Matt offered up again from the living room.

Marci found it and then went back for the ice, and Foggy frowned, trying to figure out what felt strange about this whole thing to him--oh. Marci hadn't said _thank you_ or even acknowledged that Matt had said anything.

Foggy--couldn't. Not on top of everything else. " _Thanks_ , Matt," he said pointedly, turning and glaring at Marci. "And how is _that_ going to taste?" He asked, frowning at the haphazard mix of ice, rum, apple juice and Sprite going into the blender.

"Delicious. Trust me, at Yale this is what I lived on for three months when my I dumped my upperclassmen boyfriend as a freshman and suddenly couldn't get any decent drink mixes from his friends," Marci said brightly, and turned the blender on.

\--

Matt had a very bad feeling the second Marci Stahl showed up to explain that she was there to get smashed with Foggy, and this turned out to be another instance of accidental clairvoyance.

Bee felt just as uncomfortable as Matt, their body unhappily tense. After a little while, they moved so the two of them were sitting side-by-side instead, and Matt offered to braid their hair to take their mind off of the sounds of the blender (loud loud _loud_ screaming Matt wanted to _scream_ ), followed by soft conversation that Matt was automatically carefully filing away as something he wasn't allowed to know or respond to unless it was a direct question or order.

"So you see,” Marci was saying as she and Foggy started noisily (disgustingly) slurping down the mixes she’d made. “I love drama. I _love_ drama! But I just don’t like it when the drama affects _me_. Not gonna get sucked in.”

Matt forced himself to stop listening in. “You okay?” he murmured to Bee, whose body was still tense and stiff.

[They’re going to get drunk.]

“It does seem that way.”

[How is Foggy when he’s drunk?]

Matt was confused--except--oh, right. Bee _had_ never been around Foggy when he was drinking, hadn’t they? That made more sense.

“Like a koala,” Matt said softly.

An awkward pause. Matt brushed more hair. It was growing in thicker and stronger, less frizzy and flat now that Bee was eating.

[I don’t know what those are.]

“Small marsupials that are stereotyped as cuddly to humans,” Matt explained. He gently untangled another knot. Did Bee not brush their hair every day? “I’m not sure if they are actually amenable to human touch, but that’s the quality I meant to reference.”

[What are marsupials.]

Matt blinked. Bee’s back felt upset, their body stiff and angry, their face warm as if red with humiliation. What on earth were they _teaching_ slaves nowadays? Why didn’t Bee know these things?

Well, they’d never had a trainer as individually focused on them and an owner willing to pay for tutors, Matt supposed. “They’re similar to--they have fur, and are animals, and many have pouches for their young. Some lay eggs instead of giving birth to live young.”

There was another silence, broken only by Foggy laughing the way he rarely did around Matt, carefree and tipsy. Matt’s throat felt tight.

[Yeah, our science education was shitty. No reason to think we’d need it.]

“It’s always better to know something than to not know something, no matter what it is,” Matt murmured, frowning.

[Summer tell you that?]

Matt opened his mouth to say _yes_ \--

And stopped. Because no, that hadn’t been her, had it? It had been _Dad_ , Dad had told Matt that one night when he’d been whining about his history homework and _why do I need to know about the dumb presidents anyway, the ones who never did anything?_ Matt could suddenly hear it in Dad’s perfect voice, rough and warm and firm, a hand rubbing Matt’s hair but not like an owner because that was when Matt had been a _person_ \--

Matt jerked away from those dangerous thoughts like a hand jerked away from a hot stove, and went back to braiding. He and Bee stayed in that jumpy silence for a long while, the kind where you weren’t _eavesdropping_ on your owner and the other free people, just making sure that if you were needed you’d notice.

\--

Foggy chortled as Marci finished her story about her getting revenge on her shitty ex-boyfriend. “And _then_ , since he was so fond of sending me extremely low-quality pictures of his genitals--the only good part of him--I made sure to swap around the numbers for me and his _mother_ so when he inevitably got drunk that weekend and tried to send me one to hook me in, instead he sent it to his extremely Idahoan _mother--_ ”

Foggy almost screamed with laughter, bending double to couch and wheeze. “Fuck,” he articulated. “Holy fuck. Marci, that’s fucking crazy.”

“It was my favorite part of freshman year,” she said, and drank the last of her rum slushie. “Let’s make more,” she said, and went to get more ice. As she did, she called over, “So where did you go to undergrad?”

Foggy blinked. “Oh, Soot College,” he said.

“Where?”

“Uh, Sootlichterten College in Tacoma,” he said, stretching. “But we all called it Soot.”

“Never heard of it,” Marci frowned, as if her not knowing something was a cosmic act of unfairness.

“It’s pretty tiny,” Foggy admitted. “I think 800 undergrads overall, and no grad students.”

Marci arched an eyebrow. “What was it like? Sounds cramped.”

_Cramped_ is a good word, yeah. Foggy thought about how to possibly describe it; the drum circles, the late-night screamfests. The people perpetually crying on the stairs. The disgusting cafeteria food, vegan and gluten-free and organic options for everything. The dorms that had black mold and spiders and stray cats. The way the library was open all night every night, the way it glowed in the darkness when Foggy looked out his window freshman year, tempting him.

His friends having mental breakdowns on his floor. His roommates, who were amazing and awful and absent by turns--freshman year, two of them, one turning out to be the kind of idiot who told racist jokes and thought that it was fine because he wasn’t serious, the other the kind of guy who brought two minifridges, one for beer and one for mountain dew, sophomore year, three roommates because Foggy never, ever stopped gambling on people, one of them never showing up, one of them never coming back from a trip to the Himalayas, one of them living in his girlfriend’s single in the dorm furthest away from campus, junior year, amazing friend, Foggy doesn’t talk to him enough. Senior year in a literal room under the stairs, but at least Foggy was left in _peace_ to crank out papers and papers and papers.

The professors saying things like _you can come to me for anything_ and then _well, no, it’s not an excused absence, **you** weren’t the one who needed to go to the emergency room_. His classes--Gender and Economics, Introduction to Sexuality Studies, Introduction to Women’s History and Culture. The time he went to bed at midnight and woke up the next day at five pm, still tired.

Flying back home for Christmas and not being able to make Dad _understand_ anything because of course Dad had never gone to college, Dad didn’t go to _high school_. Candace getting wide-eyed and Foggy telling her not to go there after him. His friends, his fucking amazing friends, _having_ friends his _own_ age for the first time in his life, the lunches and dinners and breakfasts, everyone together and happy and howling with laughter. Realizing he could _do_ something with his life.

Deciding to go into law school, one late night when he was desperately trying to get the smell of pot and dirty laundry out of his room, deciding that he didn’t care anymore about the way that Anna thought he should be a butcher because he’d loved working at the butcher shop so much, he didn’t care about Dad’s sad-eyed looks whenever Foggy talked about the endless work, he didn’t care about what anyone had told him he should be, he wanted to be a fucking lawyer and have nice things.

Foggy blinked out of his reverie. “One of my friends said once it was like a really weird ‘be careful what you wish for’ kind of story,” he said thoughtfully. “As in, yeah, you’ll get all kinds of awesome shit, but you’ll also get nights where you hate everything and wish you’d never even come.”

Marci tilted her head and stopped from where she was liberally splashing rum into the blender. “Don’t tell me you’re a morose drunk.”

 

\--

 

“Either that or happy,” Foggy said, and took another deep sip. “Let me tell you this story, then, about how I ended up getting rid of my asshole roommate--one of them, at least. So in freshman year I ended up in a triple, with these two guys, Chad and Hammy. Yeah,” he said at Marci’s incredulous stare. “ _Hammy_. Now, Hammy was ostensibly gonna be an ‘intertextual’ major, basically you take a bunch of classes and write your senior paper on how they all relate to each other, and Chad was just a dick. I don’t even know why Chad showed up in the first place, he probably should have gone to an actual party school. Chad had two minifridges, one for beer and one for Mountain Dew.

“Chad did a lot of annoying things--sexile me way more often than is reasonable, not turn off the light when it was late, leave his gross shit all over the floor, etc. But I could deal with that like a normal person. What I refused to deal with was his deal with moldy food. Chad would come back from Eaton--the dining hall--with half-eaten plates of food, drop them on his desk or the floor, and never clean them up. Ever.”

Marci looked abjectly horrified.

“Yeah. So I tried a lot of things. I tried to just ask him to clean it up. I tried to tell him to clean it up. I tried to get a meeting arranged between us and the RA, but they never replied to my emails, so instead what happened was--and this should have told me that I was going to be a lawyer--I looked up the school policies and saw that one of them was that if you were posing an active health hazard to any of your roommates, you could be expelled. And Chad’s mold was sending off spores.

“So I waited until I got a cold and then I went to the head of housing and told him that I was getting sick because of my roommate’s moldy dishes. And I came in with pictures, time-stamped, and documented all the emails and the conversations between me and him. And the head of housing said they’d do a sweep for how much mold and send it off for testing while they waited for me to get tested for allergies.

“But as they were doing the sweep, they opened up his fridge because, well, it’s a natural place to look for moldy food, and according to the school policies--the agreement that we all signed--this was allowed. So they opened up his beer fridge and Chad, you see, was maybe 18. So they not only nailed him on health hazards because apparently some of it was growing _tetanus_ , they nailed him on underage drinking, underage possession of alcohol, and then apparently in the hearing for _that_ Chad said that he’d shared his beer with his friends, so they nailed him on underage _drug dealing_ to other underage students. So Chad got expelled and I got to live in relative peace for the second semester with my other roommate, who was a stupid racist asshole but at least I could live with.”

Marci cackled, making goosebumps form on Foggy’s skin, and turned the blender on again. Foggy grinned. It was going to be a _great_ night.

\--

Matt’s muscles started to hurt from tensing sometime during the second hour of drinking.

Bee was still there, unhappily silent, holding their teddy bear and trying to occasionally make conversation, flinching at every loud outburst of noise.

“Are you sure you’d rather not leave.”

There was an ugly silence. [Not walking anywhere past drunk loud free people,] Bee pointed out. [Besides, you’re still here. Why don’t we go to the room where you sleep?]

It sounded like a beautiful idea to Matt. He waited for a second for Foggy and Marci to scream with laughter at something again--probably annoying their neighbors--and walked quickly to the bedroom, not closing the door ( _if your owner wants to look at you, you want to be looked at_ ) but lying on the floor where it would be harder to be seen.

Bee sat too. [Ugh,] they said after a minute. [You keep the bear under the bed?]

[It has a knife in it,] Matt pointed out. He knew he ought to give it over to Foggy, but then he might be furious at Bee for putting Matt in danger, and giving a slave that wasn’t yours a weapon--especially since any weapons were banned on slaves for the moment--was a serious crime. Depending on the weapon and the slave, it could be a felony.

Matt felt torn in two. He knew he ought to be on his owner’s side, but the idea of anything happening to Bee--of them being charged and taken in and going through intake again and finding some dark room to bite their wrists open in--made his head swim with terror.

He took a deep breath. It was fine. It was all fine. He’d find a discreet way to hide the bear even better, or hide the knife in the kitchen instead, and then it would all be fine. Foggy wouldn’t be upset and nobody would arrest Bee. Nothing was going to happen. His panic was idiotic and unbecoming.

Bee was silent for a minute. Then, [Tell me something. Did you really know Jo? Have you seen the full video?]

[I knew her. I haven’t, and I shouldn’t.] If Jo’s words that were deemed fit for the public were enough to make Matt remember the taste of raw human liver--and they were--then the ones edited out would be worse. Matt couldn’t afford any more damage, temporary or otherwise.

Foggy and Marci laughed again from the kitchen. Matt flushed with something--jealousy? But he pushed it down. It wasn’t appropriate to be jealous of free people. No matter how deeply irritating they were.

[Was she always that...she seemed...maybe Foggy didn’t tell you, but she looked like me,] Bee said, slow and halting. [With her bunny--she was holding a stuffed bunny. Like I hold my bear. Was she a K-class, too?]

[Yes.] Matt knew because she’d mentioned it once or twice, and another one of the overseers--Marc, or something like that--had thrown it in her face once, shouted something like _you don’t have any goddamn power over me, at least I was a person for thirty years, you’ve been down on your knees since you were fucking **four**_ and then the head overseer had had them both whipped for shouting and disturbing the master.

Bee was silent. [I saw the footage of her burning. She looked happy. She wasn’t scared, I don’t think. Do you think she was scared?]

Matt closed his eyes. [I don’t know.]

[You don’t know or you don’t want to know?]

Matt curled his legs up, folding himself up under his bed. Foggy was with Marci, he didn’t have to be posing at the moment. [I don’t want to think about it.] Not crackling, curling human flesh, not the fat sizzling, not the gagged screams as Summer explained how fire was a legitimate form of torture.

Bee crawled under the bed, too, and wriggled so Matt was closer to the wall. [Shh. It’s okay down here. Foggy hasn’t hit you yet.]

[I wish he would,] Matt said back, the teddy bear squashed between the two of them. [I wish he would just make sense. He doesn’t make sense and I can’t function like this.]

Bee poked him sharply in the ribs. [You can learn how to do this. You’re smart, you can learn anything you want to. Right?]

Well, not how to see. But just about, Matt supposed. He nodded, and the two of them lay there in the dark, the sounds of soft breathing and raucous laughter from the free people in the other room mingling like rotting, liquid potatoes and salt.

 

\--

 

 

 

 

Marci was _fun_ , Foggy thought drunkenly. She was fun, and funny, and she told hilarious stories about other people being crazy assholes. Some of them weren't really funny because they ended with people dropping out or going to rehab or getting divorced, but they were mostly pretty funny.

And Marci wasn't fragile. Foggy didn't have to watch what he was saying or be nice or tread carefully. He could be as loud and cheerful and _normal_ as he wanted and she wouldn't crumple, not the way Matt sometimes crumpled to his knees.

He felt suddenly guilty for thinking that. Sheesh, what kind of asshole _was_ he, getting sad because he had to be nice to a guy who was _literally_ his _slave_?

"You're not an asshole," Marci said dryly. "Except when you're really pissed. But that's hilarious anyway."

Foggy blinked. Was he talking out loud?

"Yes," she said, and giggled, and then poured more of the bottle into shots. They couldn't drink the whole bottle tonight--Foggy did have a couple of late-morning classes, and besides, it was an entire bottle of rum--but they could try.

"Sometimes it makes me tired," he said, now aware of how heavy his mouth was. Wow. How did people even _talk?_ "Being nice all the time. I _lll_ \--" And he stopped, because no, he couldn't say  _that_ , Matt would get all scared. "I--being nice is tiring."

"So stop being nice," Marci said, and slurped her shot. "Especially to your slave. I know he's your _doll_ , and he's _luscious_ , he looks like he should be with _arrows_ in him, like that one hot saint, but you don't have to be nice to him. 'm sure he can live without a warm blanket every two minutes."

Foggy stared at her. The room was spinning, almost, very very slowly. "I gotta be nice, though," he said.

She snorted. "Why? Wha' difference is it going to make? Oh no, I'm a slave but it's _all_ okay because they say please and thank you to me? That's...short-sighted."

"It...does make a diff'rence," Foggy protested indignantly. "And besides, I want him to be free. I want... _everyone_ to stop being slaves."

Marci sighed. "And people in hell want ice water," she said, and started putting rum in the blender again. "I want iced rum. You want iced rum?"

Maybe Foggy was done. "I had a _lot_ ," he said.

She snorted. "Not _enough_. C'mon. Let's talk about something besides your _dumb_. _Liberal_ guilt."

Foggy tried to focus. "Why...why're your Mom coming tomorrow?"

Marci laughed, a honking sound that was _completely_ wrong with all of her. "She's...not my _Mom_. She's my _moth_ er. She'd be so pissed if I called her _mom_. All 'that's disrespecting my role and the work I put in'. She's...coming up because my birthday is next week, and she can't make it, so she'd going to come up and tell me all about how her husband leaving her traumatized _me_."

Foggy blinked and did his shot. Then he asked, confused, " _Did_ it?"

"Not even a _litt_ le bit," Marci whispered. "Shh. But she thinks it did, because she thinks I love my father."

" _Do_ you?" He asked, intrigued. Or insipid. One of the two, both seemed equally likely to be the word he wanted.

"I love him, but I haven't...respected him since I was five," Marci said, sneering, and then poured out more of the ice-rum mix. The apple juice was gone, Foggy noted sadly.

"He didn't even..he doesn't even...when I was five, I knew I didn't like him," Marci said. "And because he chases after people trying to make them _like_ him, like if people are happy with you then they're nice to you. Like _that_. Which is **BULLSHIT!** " She roared.

"SHHH!" Foggy hushed. "Shhh. Claire. Claire lives next door. She's a nurse. Shhh. We have to _whisper_ ," he whispered.

Marci giggled. "But...I stopped..even then, I didn't like him, or res _pect_ him, but it wasn't until _later_ , when I, I found out he didn't even hit his slaves _himself_. He made someone _else_ do it and _tha_ t's why they all came back at the end of the month and looked like they were _sick_."

_Foggy_ suddenly felt sick. That was.."Let's sleep," he said. "Let's...one more shot and then we should...go to bed. And not talk about your, your _dickwipe_ dad."

Marci laughed, deep and stomach-convulsing and loud, and then they finished the slushies (slushies with _rum rum rum_ , who even  _knew,_ Marci was magic), bursting into breathless little laughs every time they made eye contact and one of them mouthed _dickwipe_ , and Marci ended up sprawled on the couch, and Foggy stumbled into his own bed, snoring before he even hit the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from "Zoo" by Marty McConnell, here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/140459488837/zoo-by-marty-mcconnell
> 
> Soot College is not a real college. It is not based on any real college.


	120. nothing has changed. the body is susceptible to pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for mentions of female genital mutilation and sexual harassment.

Foggy woke up to the sound of something sizzling, smelling delicious, and groaned, hiding his head in his pillow. Then he realized something was _sizzling,_ and sat up, because it was probably Matt--  
  
Who, Foggy realized with an unpleasant jolt of adrenaline, Foggy _hadn’t locked into the cuff_ last night, and who wasn’t supposed to be unlocked until Foggy did it, so what--  
  
Foggy was up and in the kitchen before consciously deciding to go find Matt, breathing hard, staring at the scene with confusion.   
  
Matt was frying eggs. Bee was there, sitting in the same clothes as last night, teddy bear tucked into the crook of their arm, eating scrambled eggs quicker than he’d ever seen them eat anything that couldn’t be drunk, sitting at the table with _Marci_ , who looked cool and collected, casually texting someone while dressed in new clothes.  
  
Foggy was very, very confused.  
  
“Good morning, Foggy,” Matt said politely, and put one of the eggs that was done on a toasted bagel, loaded with bacon and avocado slices and tomatoes. “Would you like some breakfast? I took the liberty of making some hangover-cure food.”  
  
Foggy stared. There was hot coffee just the way he liked it, and a fried-egg sandwich, and crispy bacon. There was a glass of orange juice on the table, and Marci now fixing her hair.   
  
“Sure,” he said. “Thanks, Matt.”  
  
Matt nodded, ducking his head, and turned back to the last few eggs. Foggy took his plate to the counter and ate it, feeling strangely drained from the discovery. “Uh, about the cuff--”  
  
“Oh, Bee remembered to lock it in their course as a handler, and then I could unlock it this morning. Any free person being awake in the place of residence guarantees that slaves are allowed to not be restrained, according to the new law, Foggy,” Matt reassured him. Foggy breathed out in relief. But Matt sounded worried, like he was waiting for Foggy to be mad at him for finding ways to make sure he’d stay safe.  
  
“Good. Thanks, uh, Bee,” he said, and they flashed him an indecipherable look. “And thanks, Matt. I know I kinda dropped the ball on that, so thanks for making sure we didn’t get arrested in the event of a secret-police raid,” Foggy tried to inject humor. Only Marci looked like she actually thought it was funny.  
  
“Good morning to you to, Foggy-Bear,” she said, bright and teasing and doing something with lipstick. “Your slave makes the most amazing anti-hangover food.”  
  
“Uh,” Foggy said, because had she--did she--? “You made Matt make you food?”  
  
“Well, he was making it for you, but really, once I started eating the bagel, the situation resolved itself,” she said with a shrug. “Anyway, thanks for helping me use up the rum. You can keep the last of it. Though I might swing by again tomorrow when my parents have fucked off again and left me in peace.”  
  
“Uh, you’re welcome,” he said. “Though I, should. Uh. Come by your place again.”  
  
“And miss this coffee?” she teased, taking a sip. Foggy glanced at Matt, who had the familiarly polite face that meant he either was indifferent or brimming with emotion. It was hard to tell.  
  
“Yeah, you’ve got, uh. More space.” Marci _did_ , mostly because she lived alone and had a bigger apartment. “And a bigger TV.”  
  
She laughed. “As if we need it. You’re more fun when you cut loose.”  
  
Foggy felt a sinking sensation in his stomach, and glanced at Bee, who looked homicidal, and Matt’s expressionless briskness. Fuck. He didn’t _remember_ doing much besides talking a lot to Marci and laughing, but what if he had done something assholish?   
  
He’d deal with it later. “Shit,” Foggy said as his alarm went. “Shit, class is in 30 minutes.”  
  
“Then you’d better hurry,” Marci said mildly. Matt turned off the stove, ate a fried egg, and Foggy shoveled down the last of his bagel, and rushed to get everything ready.  
  
\--  
  
Dr Qasim wanted to talk to Matt after class.  
  
Matt followed her into her office, heartbeat slower than it was than any time before she’d called him into it. Dr Qasim wasn’t about to not accommodate Matt or kick him out or try to poach him. She seemed calm and not like the type to declare a protest against slavery by not allowing slave-students in her classes.  
  
(One of Matt’s professors for a general education class--’Introduction to History of the Middle East’--had done that on the second day of classes, in front of everyone. Matt had never felt so humiliated by being a slave since intake and his hair being shaved off as he helplessly sobbed.)  
  
Dr Qasim sat down, earrings jangling, and said, “Please sit, Matt.”  
  
Matt sat in the chair.   
  
There was a quiet minute, and then she said, “I just wanted to check in with you regarding your absence yesterday, and your condition today. Are you...how are things where you live, Matt?”  
  
Matt was tempted to feel offended, to feel like she had _no right_ to even imply his owner was doing something wrong by disciplining him--if that had been what had happened, which it _wasn’t_ , Matt wasn’t anywhere near so stupid and unworthy--but instead, he felt strangely comforted by it. She reminded him, in an odd way, of Jo and Summer--though all three were radically different, each would _notice_ when Matt was injured.  
  
“Things are fine, Dr Qasim,” Matt said politely. “There was an incident. But it’s being taken care of, and my owner is taking me to the clinic on Friday.”  
  
The atmosphere palpably cooled. Matt moved uncomfortably; he wished he could tell her about the police damage of property, explain it wasn’t Foggy who had slammed his face into a table and given him fingerprinted bruises via backhand, but Foggy had told Matt to not tell anyone as they rushed to class that morning, hastily repeating Rosalind Sharpe’s instruction. It _was_ good advice, Matt knew.  
  
“Well,” she said, her tone tinged with frost, “That’s good. That you’re getting medical care. Matt, if you ever--if these incidents escalate, if things get very sticky, please know that while I can’t change your owner’s behaviour, you can always come here. If you ever need a place to study, or simply be on campus, you can always come to my office. We can discuss anything. I consider this room like Las Vegas--what goes on here stays here.”  
  
Matt bit his lip, and nodded. He felt insulted and patronized to and cared for. It was a familiar flavor on his tongue, and he didn’t choke. He didn’t have a gag reflex anymore, after all.  
  
\--  
  
One other professor asked to speak to Matt after class. Matt specifically, and not Foggy, who hovered nervously outside.  
  
He followed her into her room, and she shut the door. “Well,” she said, sitting down with a bony noise. She was new to Columbia, and she was teaching their criminal law class, and her name was Ingrid Bergan. “Haven’t you been _bad_ , Matthew?”  
  
Matt didn’t sit. She hadn’t told him to. “Pardon, ma’am?”  
  
She smiled. Matt wanted to flinch. “I want to know where the bruises on your face come from. What you did to earn them.”  
  
Her tone was a vulture swooping down to drop a stone on an egg. Matt felt something inside of him grow armor. “I’m terribly sorry, ma’am, I’m not at liberty to say.”  
She frowned. Her face was thin, and she smelled of mildew, just faintly. Her hair was down to her shoulders; it sounded brittle. “Well, it must have been something awful. Stand there.”  
  
More instructions. Matt stood. She pulled something out of a drawer, and then a _click_. A camera. “Tilt your head to the left.” More clicks.   
  
Matt felt faintly alarmed. “My owner hasn’t given permission, ma’am,” he said.  
  
She tut-tutted. “You’re in public, not chained to a bed. Though that’s really where you ought to be with a face like that. It’s hardly invasion of privacy. I’m not even asking you to strip yet.”  
  
Matt’s muscles tensed, ready to run. His mind started to puzzle through escape routes. She laughed. “No, Matthew, stay. I’m joking. Just a couple more for me, and then you can go. Though be warned that any behavioural infractions will be met with harsh _punishment_.”  
  
Her voice smelled like battery acid; her panties like arousal, even through her jeans. Matt was glad when he left, and put it in his mind as another thing to keep an ear out for.  
  
\--  
  
By Friday, Foggy was Officially Done with everyone who wasn’t Matt.  
  
People kept asking, over and over again, what Matt had done, or looking at Foggy approvingly. Anna and Dad had gotten the message alright that it wasn’t Foggy who made him look like an abuse victim, and he was suing who had. Anna had groaned when Foggy told her it was Rosalind, and Dad had sighed heavily, asked if maybe a settlement would be better, if--  
  
Foggy had hung up over the sound of Anna telling Dad that this was Foggy’s decision.   
  
Marci had followed up and Foggy had had another night where he got drunk and stumbled back to bed, but this time, he’d cuffed Matt to the bed and hadn’t done anything else. From Matt, Foggy had heard that he hadn’t yelled or hit or fucked or kissed anyone that night, but something about the _possibility_ freaked Foggy out so badly, he still felt guilty whenever he thought about it.   
  
But Friday, after classes, Foggy and Matt met Rosalind at the apartment and sat through an uncomfortable, boring car ride to the clinic; it was a ways away, and Rosalind spent the entire time making call after call, her assistant handing her papers and otherwise being silent. Matt sat between Foggy and the window and said nothing. Foggy wanted to punch the glass and scream.  
  
The clinic itself looked like the dentist Foggy used to go to, and Foggy realized like a punch to the gut as he and Matt went into the lobby--Rosalind handing him the papers he was supposed to give to the receptionist to make sure she sent the records and invoice to her--that it _was_ , in fact, the same place. The slave-clinic was the upper six floors, the dentist’s the ground floors. They took the elevator up, Foggy unable to look at the stairs.  
  
Foggy looked at people wearing collars, naked and bleeding or fully-clothed and bleeding or fully-clothed and blank-faced like Matt, and worried with the terror of the new adult, _does this make me the worst person in the world that all of this was happening a floor above me and I never noticed?_  
  
They walked to the front desk, Matt still with a hand on Foggy’s arm, and the receptionist held up a finger in the _wait_ sign as she talked on the phone. “Listen, obviously we would take you if this were a normal emergency, but just because a slave is crying and unable to calm down doesn’t make it an emergency. You just need to wait it out. Let it wear itself out and then call us back and we can give you a lot of referrals to good trainers. This is not a problem we can fix. Thank you so much and talk to you later!”  
  
Foggy stared. The receptionist’s scrubs had Hello Kitty heads on them. “Yes?” she asked.  
  
“Uh, we’re here for an appointment, uh, name of Nelson--?”  
  
“Nelson, Nelson, Nelson, for right now?”   
  
Foggy checked his phone. “We’re fifteen minutes early.”  
  
She frowned. “Are you _Sharpe_?”  
  
Foggy screamed internally. Of fucking _course_ Rosalind put it in _her_ name. He wanted to throw something, and instead took a deep breath. “Apparently so.”  
  
“Alrighty then,” the receptionist said sweetly. “Well, that makes more sense than you being Albright, since you’re clearly not here to get him a clitoridectomy!”  
  
Foggy felt a faint rush of swooshing terror. A _what_?  
  
“Alright, fill this out, take a seat over there, and then we’ll call you up. Thank you for coming here and choosing Rhodes Clinic of New York.”  
  
Foggy turned and sat down, numbly, as Matt patiently knelt between his legs, and started to look at the sheet of questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from "Tortures" by Wisława Szymborska, here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/143029665033/nothing-has-changed-the-body-is-susceptible-to


	121. you think I’ll be the dark sky so you can be the star? I’ll swallow you whole

Bee got the email before they were able to figure out what it was.

They squinted at it, early Friday morning, wondering why some typo-riddled ad for _Viagra_ of all the things a) had even been sent to them in the first place and b) hadn’t been caught by the spam filter. But then something about the typos specifically caught their eye, and they rubbed a fist against it before they were able to figure out what it was.

The typos were the exact ones slaves who had been taught to read and write when they were older made. Every single one was one Bee had seen slaves be slapped for making. Most of them were in the old, bizarre, propaganda-slathered textbooks that they knew were only used in slave-training institutions ( _S. Hook’s Guide to Grammar for the Proper Slave_ )--the exact wording.

Of course, free people made spelling and grammar mistakes too, they knew that, but...there was just something about the cadence of the email. And given how it was worded, it sounded...it sounded like something that a slave who was told to hawk some snake oil would say, not like a spam email written by a free person.

They had stared, open-mouthed, at the email. Then they saw the other pattern, the time and date--the same night--and rushed to the meeting, following the GPS coordinates by a taxi to a small cottage outside of the city limits, holding Anthea and a knife.

Bee Elle swallowed heavily, but right before they either ran off or rang the doorbell, the door opened--the side door, the slave-door--and standing there was another person, frantically waving them in.

Bee darted inside, and blinked, taking stock. There were many overstuffed couches, armchairs, and sofas, loveseats and rocking chairs, and maybe fifteen other people inside besides Bee and the one that had waved them in, and in front of them all a woman, maybe forty or forty-five, wearing a Walmart track suit and a styrofoam cup. She looked like the slaves Bee knew who had spoken Spanish first and gotten slapped on the back of the head for trying to speak it in training.

“Hello,” she said, and smiled. Bee felt strangely soothed by the smile, and took a few steps towards a free armchair, and sat in it, cradling Anthea against their chin. Then they took out their tablet from their jacket and used it to say back, “Hi?”

“Now that we’re all here,” the woman said, and Bee took stock of everyone in the room, and realized with a jolt that they seemed to all be like _them_ \--freed slaves. There was something about the way a lot of them looked uncomfortable to be on furniture, and the way Bee wasn’t the only one holding a stuffed animal. A girl--a person--was sitting on one of the loveseats, holding a blue-pink-rainbow-pastel bunny.

Bee thought about Jo’s bunny from the video. What was it named? Who was taking care of it? Had it burned as Jo burned?

The woman kept talking. “I’d like to introduce myself. My name is Emilia Gomez, and I am a former slave. I was enslaved at the age of seven by my adoptive guardians, who were my aunt and uncle. I was freed by a legal technicality when I was eighteen, and since then I have lived ten years in steady freedom.”

Bee stared at her. They knew that slaves aged fast, slavery made even black crack, but--holy shit.

Emilia smiled. “I am glad that all of you have come. I would like to tell you first why I believe you should all join the movement to live free or die for all slaves. Before I begin talking, I am going to pass around many trays of food--please take it all if you’d like. I only want everyone to be comfortable as we can be.”

A nervous flutter of laughter went around the room. Bee took a turkey sandwich for now and three granola bars for later, and passed it along as Emilia sat down on the floor and spoke.

“When I was first freed, it was on a technicality. The adoption by my aunt and uncle was not done by filing the proper paperwork, and the attendant when I was first checked into intake did not ask for proof of adoption. They almost never do, because even the technically illegal enslavements are almost never pursued.

“My birth mother, however, did pursue me. She had been fourteen years old when she gave birth to me, and when she was twenty-one, she came from her home country of Guatemala and immigrated here, only to find that her baby had been sold three months ago for money to pay taxes. It took her until I was sixteen to track me down, finally, and then the case of proving my enslavement was illegal took two years to be processed.

“When I was finally judged to be an error of the system, I was treated as such--no compensation. No possibility of welfare. A sealed record and not so much as a single apology. I was told that if I tried to ever use my former status in any legal capacity without mentioning that it was illegal due to an adoption error, I would be prosecuted by the US Government for libel and fraud. I was threatened. I was harassed by the police.

“My mother and I did not know how to have a relationship. I had been a secluded bed-slave, the ones you all know, who are kept inside the bedroom and not allowed anywhere else. I had a second-grade education and could not functionally read or write English or Spanish. I did not know how to work. My only work had been the work of any slave--keep your owners happy--and the word of any slave--make sure your rapes are as pleasurable as possible for your rapists.

“I had no friends, and my few contacts inside the house where I had been kept since I had been purchased at the age of nine--the head of the household, Andreas, who was permitted to tend to me when I was sick, the youngest pet, ‘Cookie’, who was only eight at the time, who was allowed to give me human touch when my owners were away, and the doll, Darlene, who took my place when I was menstruating and was allowed to speak to me through the door--were suddenly torn away from me.

“I didn’t understand how to be a daughter or even a woman. I resented having to wear clothes. I offered sex to my mother whenever she was irritated, upset, or angry. I ate with my hands. I slept through most of the day and stayed up all night.

“When I was offered a job at the local abolitionist chapter of the organization Last Slaveowner Generation, I was delighted. My mother didn’t know what to do with me. I was constantly terrified of being re-sold, not understanding that legally, I couldn’t be.

“Now, my first clue as to why this organization was not going to bring me to the promised land _should_ have been that the nature of the job was an ‘unpaid internship’--which is another word for work without compensation. Once I was confident enough to question this, I was told that we were being compensated by gaining ‘experience’, which is by nature not a form of currency.”

Another laugh went around the room. Bottles of water, juice, and sodas were now being passed around. Bee rubbed Anthea’s fuzzy ears.

“My second clue--which I did not understand at the time--was that my credentials were constantly questioned. I was asked, in public and private, by bosses and colleagues, by people on the phone and in person, how I had suffered. My story was ripped out of me, and it was told to everyone. People at the organization played games of telephone with my stories, exaggerating and hyperbolizing and distorting my words until nothing made any sense, and then they’d come back and demand to know why I’d clearly lied. I would say that I’d been beaten until I lost a tooth, for example, and someone would ask me the next day why it was that I was lying about not having any teeth when I clearly possessed them. Those sorts of things.

“And if I did not give up a story to justify everything I said--if I did not begin every opinion with ‘well, as a beaten, raped, starved, tortured slave’--I was dismissed. ‘We have the facts, we have the statistics,’ I was told. ‘That didn’t happen.’ Or: ‘you can’t speak on this issue’. Or: ‘well, unless you’ve been raped..’.

“Asking someone to show you their wounds in pornographic detail before you accept their words that they are hurt and need help is exploitation. Demanding credentials of every horror someone has gone through is violence. Forcing people to recount every time we have suffered before we are allowed to venture an opinion is dehumanizing. People who treat you like this are not treating you like a free person. They are treating you like a slave.

“The statistics are lies. The official reports are lies. The decommissioning certificates are lies. The permits are lies. The auction house evaluations--which are, let’s face it, _commercials_ \-- are lies. The inspections of slave-markets, when they are even performed, are lies. There is no useful or accurate information given by anything endorsed by the United States government, even tacitly endorsed. You cannot trust any of that--and see, you all know,” Emilia said, laughing with the others, who were nodding.

“But they do not know. They do not know anything. And they do not care. Fundamentally, most abolitionists are the same as protectionists--they don’t want slavery gone. Why would they? Their entire lives are devoted to fighting it, as if they are a saint in shining armor, gone to slay the dragon. What would they do without it?”

Emilie took a long gulp of Coke. Then she wiped off her mouth with the back of her hand, and went back to speaking.

“And all around me, abolitionists would tell me how guilty they felt. How much pity I made them feel. How sorrowful they were. They told me of sisters, nieces, nephews sold, of seeing slaves raped in public, of how awful it was to go to Thanksgiving dinners and have to make nice and be served pumpkin pie by people who were enslaved. How seeing collars made them sick. They never let me escape the horrors of the world. I sometimes begged them, tearfully, to please not tell me any more, to please stop, I couldn’t bear knowing any more--and they’d tell me I wasn’t committed enough to the movement.

“Now, I’m not saying that free people shouldn’t feel guilty--or, at least, owners. Owners should feel guilty. If any person who owns another person has a single scrap of human decency in them, they should hate themselves as much as we hate them. They should hate themselves for the rest of their lives, because they are disgusting.

“They are repugnant and disgusting and horrific. They are rapists. They are child molesters. They are abusive, violent, vicious people. They do not deserve sympathy or excuses; they do not deserve respect or allowances. There is no excuse. There is no good-enough reason.”

Bee tilted their head, and thought.

Emilia kept going. “I was finally broken out of my belief that I was going to work at this organization for the rest of my life during a dinner. I was invited to a dinner with Tom and his wife Jessica.

“Let me first explain a little about Tom and Jessica; these were the people that had first taken me in. They had helped find me places to take literacy classes, explained social norms to me. Jessica took my mother out to lunches and listened to her feelings. Tom taught me how to grocery shop, how to buy clothes, how to drive a car--all the things I had no idea how to do. It was with Jessica and my mother that I made my first meal from scratch. It was Tom and Jessica that had, essentially, become an aunt and uncle for me.

“Finally I came to dinner at their house. And I was sitting at their maplewood table--I can see it now--when their slave came out of the kitchen.”

A hush fell over the room. Bee’s fingers squeezed Anthea tight.

“I was shocked. I couldn’t breathe. I ran outside, and there, when Jessica came out, I questioned her. I said what, what are you doing?

“And she reassured me that no, they weren’t having sex. No, his name was Jason, and no, nobody was hitting him. But there he was with a collar still on his neck. She told me that he was a part of their family, that they loved him.”

Bee’s mouth fell agape. A thin, tiny wheezing noise came out from their mouth; they were laughing, and they weren’t sure why. _Part of their family_.

“I asked her when they were going to free him,” Emilia said. “Because I knew my mother loved me, and I was a part of her family, and that is why she freed me--even though my aunt and uncle were a part of my family, and they were the ones who had sold me.”

Bee’s stomach ached.

 

“And she told me no, they weren’t. And I asked why--was he M-Class? And she said no, no, he was a K, and, well, their organization didn’t believe in going after slaves that had a low probability of staying free anyway, they had to prioritize their resources…”

Bee wanted to kill someone. How fucking _dare_ anyone say that about them? How dare anyone just--just-- _resign_ them to slavery like they were--like it was--like even  _one day of real freedom_ wasn't worth  _money_ \--

“And I said, no, why don’t you use _your_ money? Why don’t you? You have money! And she explained that well, they didn’t want to put money back into the system--these people who paid taxes and police fines and bought clothes made by slaves and were still friends with people who owned slaves--these people didn’t want to put money back into the system!”

Emilia was crying, faintly. The girl with the bunny got down on the floor, and before Bee knew it they were too, and the girl was holding out the bunny to Emilia, and Bee holding out Anthea, and other slaves were fetching blankets and pillows, and many were offering their arms, and Emilia was smiling and shaking her head.

“No, no, it’s--you are all so kind, no,” she said. They all sat back. “No, I’m alright. I’m just--that is what the groups say, endlessly. Every abolitionist organization that doesn’t save up money to buy slaves’ freedoms says that they don’t want to give the government any more money, even as they do nothing but put it into the slavery machine.

“They go to restaurants and eat crops picked by slaves, they go to hospitals and get drugs tested on slaves, they get sick and get slave-organs, they pay taxes and police fines and organizational fees, they pay dues to churches that tell people to sell their sinful offspring, they buy organic fucking _diapers_ from companies that sell slave-chow, they get laptops from companies that make slave shock collars better every year, they’re infertile and adopt babies torn away from their slave mothers, they take and take and take from slaves and sit back and when they can finally give their money to owners to do some _good_ they say, no, oh no, _we don’t want to give money to the system!”_

Bee felt a fire burning in their blood. The girl with the bunny was wide-eyed, dark-skinned, wearing what Bee was almost sure was a nightgown. Bee wanted to cradle her close, touch the bunny’s satin ears. They refrained.

“I sat there, in the dark,” Emilia said, “And Jessica told me well, if they were going to, they’d have to sell their house and then they’d have to move in with Tom’s parents. This way, she said, we can make sure he’s ‘almost free’. And that night I realized what we are not worth to abolitionists.

“We are not worth inconvenience. We are not worth difficulty. We are not worth treating with human respect. We are not worth hard questions. We are not worth the energy it takes to use your brain for one single minute to realize that there _is no such thing as ‘almost free’_ \--or ‘as good as free’ or ‘practically free’. There is free and there is slave. There is nothing else.”

Emilia’s eyes burned with passion. Bee felt like they were hearing something sacred, something divine. Secret and _true_

“I didn’t leave the organization right away. I didn’t know I could, or what else I could do. But as soon as I could, I bought a phone, kissed my mother on the cheek, and left to go to New York city, and here I went around to chapters upon chapters of every abolitionist organization, and I found out from other ex-slaves that my experiences were not special, they were ordinary. I heard stories of remarks that shocked me. I heard about people accusing slaves of being economically privileged because they at least got to eat ‘for free’!”

The room was deathly silent again, except this time with rage.

“I heard about people who were raped after being freed. About cinderellas. About people whose parents sold and freed them over and over again, endlessly. One woman I knew was sold and freed eighty times between the ages of three and seventeen. Her parents have never apologized.”

Bee thought about the idea of Jocasta Ramirez apologizing. The idea made their lip curl, them want to spit.

“I learned about how to survive. And I saw which kind of ex-slaves--and current slaves--the abolitionists favored. About which ones they _like_. The pattern itself is fairly simple: young, pretty, and a sexy crier. They want the ones who are tragic. They want the ones they can sell as having done ‘nothing to deserve this’--as if _anyone_ does! As if anyone ever _could_!

“They want the ones with beautiful faces. They want the ones who never gave in. They want the ones who ‘overcame their challenges’. They want the ‘inspiring’ ones. They want ones without voices so they can talk for them. They want ones who can sob and make people want to keep watching. They want the ones they can ‘enlighten’ with ‘how beautiful sex is’,” Emilia sneered.

“They want the ones who they can diagnose with ‘post-traumatic stress disorder’--as if there’s no trauma to suddenly being free. They want the ones who never did anything questionable or difficult, or _human_. If you’ve ever helped a slave miscarry, they don’t want you. If you hated your slave overseer, they don’t want you. If you didn’t fight back enough--or you fought back in too unsavory ways--if you’re not something to mold--they don’t want you. If you won't swallow their shit with a smile,  _they don't want you._

“They want a very specific type of ex-slave. And the reason you have been asked to come here tonight is so that I can tell you this story to save your life--so that you don’t waste it. Abolitionists are great at promising and terrible at delivering. They have been saying that they can reduce slavery, even _stop_ it, since the beginning of slavery.

“And yet they haven’t even managed to slow it down. They are not our shining knights. Nobody is coming to rescue you,” Emilia said, lifting her chin. “The only people who are here to help us--who can help us--is ourselves. And we have each other--look around you! You don’t know me. But all of you rushed to help when you saw distress.”

Bee tilted their head.

“Slavery is a solvable problem. You’ve all seen the news. You know that the kind of world you live in is changing. Incremental solutions, harm reduction--fuck that! Live free or die!”

Everyone said _life free or die_ , Bee and the girl with the bunny both signing it instead.

Emilia smiled and sat back. “I’d like to have this house, and this time, as a sort of support group,” she said. “Not to make you rehash everything you’ve ever thought. But to move forward together, to support one another. I have so much now. I can give it back.”

Like Matt helping Bee get away.

“And here, tonight, this is where I’ll tell my stories,” she said. “After I realized what kind of violence it is to be forced to say, I vowed I would never again tell a free-not-freed person of anything I’ve suffered. But here, where I can do good, I will. Every ex-slave who can should do some good. And we don’t all have to do the same good--I know of people who write speeches and people who use the stock market to get money to free slaves. One of my dear friends made a card game extension--of the game Fluxx--that has the masters as the bad cards, the different types of owners as monsters that stop you from winning. We can all do something, anything.

“Come to me, one by one, and I’ll pay for your subway or cab or however you got here. And please take the food as you leave--I hate turkey and ham sandwiches.”

Soft murmurs abounded, and as Bee shuffled over to the girl with the bunny, they signed, _Hi, I’m Bee._

_That’s a nice name,_ the girl signed back, dreamily. Their hair looked like clouds. The nightgown was wispy, lacy. _Master_ \--and Bee stared as they used the slave-sign not the free-sign, M with fingernails facing out, from right to left across the throat, _Master used to say my name was Cloud the Sweet. Or slut. Now they keep telling me my name is Amanda. I don’t want it to be Amanda._

_So pick a different name,_ Bee signed.

The girl smiled. She looked drugged, not happy. _I can’t think of any._

Bee glanced at Emilia, who was giving fistfuls of cash to everyone, and then at their tablet, the time. _I’ll bring a list, next week,_ Bee signed. _And you can pick._

The girl smiled and swayed. _I can’t hear what they sound like anymore. Names. Master said the last thing he ever wanted me to hear was his voice, but my ears still ring._

Bee grinned, familiar with the joy of bodily defiance. _I don’t have a tongue because I bit a dick off,_ they signed, and the girl and Bee laughed. _They took out my teeth with pliers and my tongue with shears but they couldn’t make his dick work again._

They giggled together, and Bee left with a warmth in them that they weren’t used to. The lights outside looked like Christmas trees, and hope glowed under their skin as they climbed into their bed that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from 'I'm not sad' by Warsan Shire, here: http://clinicaldepressiondormparty.tumblr.com/post/143310969447/im-not-sad-but-the-boys-who-are-looking-for-sad


	122. you don’t walk through the woods with the people who left you to the wolves, no matter how much you love the woods and how good you are with wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for rape, victim-blaming, and objectification of a rape victim.

Matt knelt quietly, listening to Foggy fill out the forms, his faint, hitched breaths. The clinic smelled like human veterinarians: medicines and scrubs and hurt slaves, sweat and tears and nitrile gloves. One of the slaves near Matt was weeping softly.

Matt felt nothing. Bored, maybe. Anticipatory.

Foggy filled out the forms, asking Matt if he had any allergies or had had any surgeries (“Only an appendectomy, Foggy,” Matt murmured) and then took them back to the receptionist.

The floor was cold tile. Matt waited.

They were called up ten minutes _after_ the appointment time, and as the nurse who came over said, “Sharpe?” Matt elegantly rose and walked with Foggy, ears pricked and alert.

The nurse chattered to Foggy as they walked. “So it says here that the reason for the visit is head trauma, and you’re ordering a full workup on its head, is that correct?”

“Uh, yeah, on Matt,” Foggy said. “Who is not an it.”

“Of course. Alright, he should take a seat over there, on the chair,” she said, gesturing, and then Foggy guided him over to it.

“Good boy,” she said as Matt sat down. “Now, first the vet is going to be in for concussion testing, questions, that sort of thing. Next there will be X-rays, a CT scan, and an MRI. Afterwards if you have any other concerns you can schedule an appointment on your way out. Thank you very much for choosing us, and if you need anything just open up the door.”

Matt closed his eyes and fell backwards inside his head, curling up and going Elsewhere. This time, it was a soft pillow-room, one of the ones designed for slaves to rest. There were pillows and blankets and mattresses scattered around on the padded floor, and Matt curled up on one and breathed, and everything was quiet and peaceful. He left the parts of him that would follow the doctor’s orders and answer questions behind, and blissfully remembered nothing else of any medical procedure, except--

After the CT scan, and when he was being led down the hall to the MRI, naked, Matt was jerked back into awareness briefly as a conversation the room over sounded--

“Yes. Well, Mr Samael, this just looks to me to be clitoral--well, micro-penile--friction, a bit too much of it. There’s no blood and no injury, and while we can definitely take samples I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.

“Oh, that’s good. Hear that, Honey? You’re not hurt or sick.”

A soft noise of relief from a slave--the one named Honey. A plastic jingle of a tag on a collar, just like Matt’s tag.

“And to avoid this in the future, we do recommend that if you allow your slaves to masturbate, you mandate the use of lubricants--water or silicon-based tend to be more sterile--and put some limits on the frequency and duration allowed.”

A chuckle. “Not sure how well that’d work, it’s pretty insatiable.”

“Well, there are a large range of chastity devices, even for intersexed slaves. You can also use some adverse-stimulus training to reduce sexual desire--”

A frightened whimper from Honey, and then, from the owner, firmly, “No. I like that it’s a bit of a nympho. And there’s no reason to hurt it, not when it does its best.”

“Well, Mr Samael, of course that’s up to you. Our receptionists can give you some pamphlets and recommendations, and of course you can schedule a more general physical for the future, or a more specialized genital examination.”

“Thanks so much,” the owner said. “I was really worried, especially because Honey never complains about anything. I’ll make sure to come back in six months, and make it use more lube,” and the last words were said teasingly to the slave.

Then Matt was directed to lie down on the tissue-thin sheet on the MRI table, and fell back out of awareness. It was the only way to endure the incredible noise of MRIs.

\--

Matt seemed _really_ , horribly out of it all day to Foggy. He answered questions and followed orders and knelt and stood up and the entire time his face was completely emotionless and his eyes were dull. It made Foggy want to scream and apologize and cry, but instead, he focused on trying to be there for Matt as much as possible. But the whole time, he had the niggling feeling that he wasn’t making the slightest difference.

After the MRI--the last thing--they let Matt put his clothes back on as the technician approvingly told Foggy, “He’s just so _docile_ , it’s gorgeous, and in any case the results of all the tests combined will be forwarded to you in about three business days, as well as to the inventory address. If any symptoms on this sheet arise or you notice anything odd, especially behaviourally, call emergency services or come make an emergency appointment immediately. Thank you so much for using Rhodes Clinic of New York and please make sure to sign out with the receptionist.”

Foggy swallowed and offered his elbow, and Matt took it, eyes closing and then opening as they walked to the sign-out desk and Foggy tried to explain to the receptionist that no, he wasn’t interested in making a follow-up appointment, and she wrestled with him to try and force him to make one, and eventually he managed to just take a card and listen to the instructions about how to not aggravate the hairline fracture in Matt’s nose and left cheekbone.

Then they left, and Rosalind’s car was exactly as horribly silent as it had been on the way there.

\--

The rest of February passed in a dull, muffling haze.

Matt felt like he was perpetually sitting four feet to the left, with pretzel legs and hands in his lap, hearing nothing and thinking nothing at all, feeling only a phantom mesh cage around him.

He tried to surge back up, tried to be more alert. But the cost-benefit analysis technique from the cognitive-behavioural worksheet didn’t help at all; no matter how often he came to the conclusion that he needed to be more active and less detached for Foggy, he couldn’t seem to actually _do_ it.

Trying to be kind to himself didn’t work. Trying to punish himself--pinching where he knew his pressure points were, scraping his cock raw in the shower with fingernails, biting his tongue--didn’t work. Nothing seemed to make any difference.

The suit proceeded. Matt’s results came back, and he didn’t have any long-term damage. Matt felt nothing. Matt was allowed to go to the gym again after the bruises dissolved. Matt felt nothing. Professor Bergan eyed Matt up less and less as he became beautiful again. Matt felt nothing. Matt had three more migraines, and for each he was allowed to take the pills with water and sleep in a quiet place. Matt felt nothing.

Bee noticed, Matt knew, and Bee tried to draw him out of it too, making him hold their bear and talk to them about anything and everything, squeezing his hand and wrapping him up in their soft-for-cotton blankets, but Matt still felt muzzy and stupid and adrift. He couldn’t stop replaying the orgasm from the shower, the way it had felt uncomplicatedly _good_ for thirty seconds. He couldn’t stop realizing just how stupid and ruined and disgusting and pathetic he’d become.

Matt uneasily dreamed, trying to instead sleep in a napping doze when he could, and everything in his dreams melted and bled together, Summer’s face gaining Foggy’s nose and Bee’s voice the Russian-Brooklyn accent of Winter’s, Beethoven’s _Ode to Joy_ abruptly morphing into Yuja Wang performing Mendelssohn’s _Piano Concerto No. 1 in G minor_. Mistress Janet’s hands started to smell like Mistress Sharon’s, Master Viktor’s cock tasted like Foggy’s tongue. Nothing made sense.

He dreamed the most about Jo, however. She crept into the edges, hovering and flavoring the scenes like smoke, asking Matt over and over again why he hadn’t helped her, why he’d killed Master Robert. Sometimes she was grateful, sometimes she was furious. One particularly awful dream involved Jo chaining down Matt and beating him with a hose, asking him over and over again if he knew what he’d done wrong. None of his answers had been the one she wanted.

Matt usually woke up with tears streaking down his face, and would go wash his face near-silently in the night, crawl back into bed, and try not to wake Foggy up. He knew he didn’t always succeed.

But on the second of March, things suddenly changed. Matt asked Foggy if he could use the bathroom before they left to go to lunch, and Foggy of course said yes, and Matt walked in, used it, washed his hands--

And coming in the window was _Summer_ , with some sort of magnetic handcuff, instantly restraining Matt before squeezing him into a hug and soft _I missed you, child--_

 

\--

Matt stood, frozen and cuffed, before relaxing into the embrace.

“I’m not allowed to speak to you,” he murmured to his feet, and Summer laughed.

“Well, what that boy doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” she said, and kissed Matt’s cheek. “Oh, child,” she said, warm and fond and anodyne. “I’m so proud of you. And worried for you.”

Matt tilted his head.

“I’ve been monitoring you,” she explained. “After--well, after that little test, I knew that what I was afraid of could be a possibility. And with what’s happened, how he looks at you, talks about you...dear child, you’re in grave danger.”

Matt bit back the urge to snap _I’m not a child anymore_. That would only make her think he was even more childish.

Summer stroked his face with the back of one hand. “And now you’re getting pretty again. Good. That will help.”

Matt couldn’t stand the sudden flood of anticipation. After the numbness, now he felt sharp pins-and-needles all over his brain. “What are you talking about?”

Summer laughed, melodic, mellifluous. “Child, your owner is in love with you, haven’t you noticed?”

Matt--

A memory floated back up, the kind usually kept in a locked box in a cupboard of his mind palace, an old man’s gruff voice saying, _worse than sick, she’s in love--_

The way Foggy’s heartbeat sounded--

The way Foggy liked him to _disagree_ , to ask for things, the way Foggy said things were _objectifying_ slaves, the way Foggy’s mouth preferred to kiss Matt’s and not his collar--

Matt felt the blood drain out of his face. In futile protest, he struggled and said, “But--that doesn’t make any sense--love isn’t for slaves--”

“Love isn’t for objects, no,” she said. “At least, not the romantic love. But if he’s fooled himself into thinking that you’re a _person_ \--and he has, that’s as obvious as anything--well.”

Matt felt his mouth go askew, jaw agape, horror coursing through him like belladonna. “I--I--”

He didn’t--he couldn’t--the wind had been knocked out of him--

“See, you understand the danger,” Summer murmured, stroking his hair. “And that’s why I’ve come here. Not to New York, those are different reasons--”

Matt tilted his head, desperate for anything else to think about besides the terror rooting him to the spot.

“Frozen things,” she said softly, bitterly, “The thing about them is that, well, they all unfreeze.”

What did _that_ mean?

Matt flung his mind into the recesses of his memory, trying to grab a hold of anything to interpret her particular brand of crypticism--

And he thought, rapidly, of a plane falling from the sky into ice, of how her owner’s voice sounded rather like the things in newsreels Matt had seen back when he was a person, of how sometimes Winter would say things, carelessly, like _beef is better wrapped in paper_ or else _no, that film is nonsense, things weren’t like that back then_ , and Matt’s eyes widened.

“The Valkyrie?” he whispered. “They found it?”

“And the star-spangled man with a plan still inside,” she said, her face twisting audibly. “Which is why I’m in this rat-infested shithole. I hate this city, it stinks like shit and I can’t get the smell out of my nose.”

Matt...didn’t push. “So why--?”

“Because if your owner is in love with you, you need extra protection,” she hissed. “So you’re going to listen to me and drink this--” and Matt noticed her heat-conserving thermos-- “And then you’re going to live, do you understand me? I intend for you to _survive_. You are my greatest protegee and I will _not_ stand for you being destroyed.”

Matt felt a laugh bubbling up from under him. “You--you can’t just--no!” he said, twisting. “You--you were wrong--how am I supposed to trust you?” he asked, snarling.

“Wrong about what?”

“You--you said sex was disgusting--”

“It is,” she said, matter-of-fact, voice full of contempt, mealworms tumbling off her tongue. “For me, and I’m sure for you too.”

But her heart skipped one tiny, tiny beat, like a single tarnished atom on a pearl. Matt blinked, and then--

So she wasn’t _wrong_ , she had just been _lying_.

Oh.

That was much better. All that meant was Matt hadn’t been smart enough to catch it earlier. Sometimes she lied to him just to test him, just to ensure he was keeping on his toes, and this just meant he hadn’t been doing it well enough.

Oh.

That still meant that things weren’t as Matt had thought they were, but it did mean that he didn’t have to go over everything she’d ever taught him with a fine-toothed comb. It meant he didn’t have to let go of his training. He’d just have to adjust a little.

Matt resolved to pursue even harder the pleasure of sex. He’d get good at it, familiar and lovely, and he’d--he’d tell Foggy about it each time until Foggy had sex with him, and once Matt had shaped himself, gotten into the sort of shape for it, sex with Foggy would be different and probably better than before, and if Foggy was in love with him--

Matt decided to double-check. “If--he is,” Matt said slowly, unable to obey Foggy’s implicit order to never talk to Summer again, “I should want him to have sex with me?”

“Given that he’s not like my owner, I would think so,” she said. Matt almost squirmed under the weight of her gaze.

“But be careful,” she said, serious. “Be very, very careful. Being owned by someone who thinks they’re in love with you is like being locked into ballet heels in a cage with a cobra. You have to be very, very fast and _keep your balance_.”

Matt swallowed. Yes, it would be--

“But it can be good,” she murmured, stroking his hair again. “Do you remember the stories I told you, the Anatonka stories? Before the bombs came and ruined the palace and I had to eat chunks of my heart?”

Matt nodded. He remembered them. _A long, long time ago, in a palace where only one slave was imported, there was a crop of new slave-girls all trained together, and we were all called Anatonka, for it meant_ unbaked bread _and that was what we were, bread to be baked and devoured, and it was the greatest privilege of all to be devoured by the emperor, and one day one Anatonka…_ was the way each began, and in each an Anatonka always died, or was sold, or triumphed. 

In many one was torn apart or set on fire or made to each poisons because one of the emperor’s sons or nephews or daughters or courtiers had fallen in love with an Anatonka and then had realized that they weren’t people at all, and had flown into a rage at being tricked.

And in some, certain brave ones of the slave-girls managed to find happiness as the head of a household or a personal advisor-slave, whispering in the emperor’s ear and running the palace.

“Foggy tells me he likes it when I disagree with him,” Matt murmured.

Summer laughed. “He must think it’s a sign that you’re a person,” she said, and Matt wanted to wither away and die at the sound.

“Oh, child,” she said fondly. “Whatever it is your owner likes, be sure to give it to him. And don’t give up hope,” she said, suddenly solemn again. “I’m sure he’ll eventually come around and see you for what you really are inside.”

Matt licked his lips. _That_ would be sweet indeed. “How--?”

Summer smiled. “Do you think he was always as refined and charming? When my owner first bought me, he hadn’t showered in a month and had a backpack with a clip across his chest, full of dollar-store notebooks. He started off by telling me that I was _safe_ with him,” she said, a low, mocking lilt to her voice.

Matt couldn’t help it. He laughed at the idea. _Winter_ like _that_? It was as absurd as a dachsund making a cream-cheese souffle.

Summer giggled too. “So you need to be far more careful than normal. You can’t break his delusions, but you don’t want to play into them in any way. And you can’t be unhappy,” she added. “It’s only if he wants to put you back together that you can at any time fall apart, do you understand?”

Matt nodded. But--”It’s so exhausting to be pitied,” he said, and admitting it made him flush with shame, but there it was. He hated it when he said something neutral or positive and Foggy treated him like he’d just had a crying fit. Or even when he  _had_ been hurt, or broken down, and Foggy treated him like he was made of glass and not meat.

“It is,” she agreed. “But what do we say about work?”

“Work is exhausting, but it is no less necessary or important for being so,” Matt murmured.

Summer kissed his forehead. “Good boy. Now, drink up,” she said, holding up the thermos and unscrewing it. The metallic scent of her human blood filled the small bathroom.

Matt gulped obediently, swallowing it all down. “Chug, chug, chug,” Summer muttered, and Matt resisted the urge to laugh and/or choke. He was vaguely thankful that it was hot--otherwise it’d coagulate and be inedible.

Then she held up a flask, and Matt washed down the blood with her tea, her special tea. He closed his eyes and savored it.

She patted his head, and removed the handcuffs. “You shouldn’t disobey your owner by talking to me or accepting my gifts once he’s forbidden it,” she said pleasantly, “But if you tell him that I was here, we’ll burn down your apartment building.”

Then she left the window and Matt smiled and walked out, feeling joyful. He had to shove down the urge to skip as Foggy asked him if he was okay, and it was difficult to refrain from whistling.

Matt felt a familiar, bone-deep fear, but there was hope, too, filling him up for the first time in weeks. He wasn’t ruined. He had just been stupid for a while and now he could adapt. He made mental plans to masturbate more and more, train his body to be suited for Foggy like he ought to have done _months_ ago, and he would be fine.

“May I--after classes,” Matt asked Foggy as they walked into the dining hall, “May I bake pine nut and onion rye rolls for Claire? The nurse that you had treat me the night I was hurt?”

“What? Yeah, Matt,” and Foggy sounded relieved too. “Of course.”

“Thank you,” Matt murmured, smiling.

It didn’t matter that once a slave was sufficiently broken, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put them back together again. It didn’t matter.

Matt wasn’t broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a tumblr post, here: http://vangoghstars.tumblr.com/post/142773966871/you-dont-walk-through-the-woods-with-the-people
> 
> Beethoven's Ode to Joy can be heard here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vlSR8Wlmpac
> 
> Yuja Wang's performance can be heard here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2GGx8TRWFVA


	123. step one: separate your lips. step two: use facial muscles to pull back corners of mouth. step three: widen your eyes. this is how to be happy.

Matt kneaded dough and thought.

These weren’t thoughts he wanted to be thinking; this wasn’t what he wanted to be doing, chasing his mind in circles. But it was necessary.

_Your owner thinks he is in love with you._

It was a death sentence, as dispassionate and terminal as any sentence on a decommissioning certificate. _Slave beaten until dead. Slave whipped until exsanguinated to dead. Slave left without food or water until dead. Large rolling pin inserted without lubrication; slave developed sepsis from rectal tears and not treated until death. Slave crushed under falling tree; died of head trauma. Slave beaten with paperweight to head until skull fracture and death._

Matt would, one day, probably die because of Foggy.

He took deep breaths and forced himself to imagine it, over and over again, in vivid detail as he kneaded, until it didn’t loom like a terrifying figure but rather a frightening, unpleasant fact. Matt shook and kneaded and forced himself to cope with it.

Nothing ever ended well in books about owners falling in love with slaves, except for the most banal, transparently emotional-pornographic ones, of course. Like _Fifty Shades of Grey_ , which Matt had finished with Bee, which alleged that Christian Grey loved Anna even after she marched into the slavery office and surrendered herself and was bought by him. Granted, Matt was of the opinion that Mr Grey did not seem to treat Anna even like a _favored_ object, much less a beloved person, and therefore couldn’t be in love with her, but still.

Protectionist literature, of course, believed that the opposite happened all the time. In fact, it encouraged it as a goal; their training manuals said that by the end, you were finished when your slaves loved you.

Summer had laughed and explained to Matt how it was all ludicrous nonsense, of course. Slaves weren’t people and couldn’t be in love as such--and even besides, attachment and gratitude and desperation to please didn’t add up to love. Love was stronger than the grave, love was patient, and kind, and forgiving, and no slave was a person enough to _forgive_ their owner anything.

Matt felt abruptly, deeply sad for Foggy; not pity, that was inappropriate, but simply...angry and grieving on his behalf. Foggy deserved to be in love with an actual _person_ , someone who could fall in love with him in return, someone who could do more than fake it.

Foggy deserved more than Matt could give. It made him furious and upset and brought Matt almost to tears, even thinking about it--sweet, kind, awful, patient Foggy, who used a crowbar of gentle words to pry Matt open because he thought that Matt was somehow _trapped inside_ his training, rather than fully integrated into it.

Poor Foggy. Matt wished, stupidly, that he could tell him _the person you think exists isn’t me, I’m not a person, you’ll be happier if you want someone else_.

(A part of him wanted to scream at the sheer unfairness. Now Matt would probably be fucking _beaten to death_ once Foggy realized that Matt wasn’t a person and blamed him for his own fucking heartbreak. He wanted to cry and beg, _I didn’t **do** anything, please, I’m so sorry, please don’t hurt me--_ )

But in the meantime, Matt reviewed Foggy’s rules, and Foggy’s desires--Foggy wanted him to eat and bake cupcakes, Foggy wanted to take care of Matt and be taken care of when ill, Foggy wanted Matt to stay pretty, Foggy wanted Matt to express his true feelings, or--

( _When people tell you that they want honesty, they’re wrong_ , she said, her skirt swishing against the ground as they walked together through the herb garden. _What they mean is that they want you to tell them what they want to hear **and** they want what they want to hear to be the actual truth._ )

But Foggy seemed to enjoy soothing Matt, so maybe--maybe he wanted Matt’s actual emotions? Matt suddenly wasn’t sure, felt right back on the rocks he’d thought he’d sailed away from.

Foggy wanted to be reminded to study, and to watch Matt elegantly destroy opponents in academics, and he wanted to be teased and see Matt enjoying the rain. Foggy wanted Matt to parkour (though until the law was repealed, that didn’t quite seem possible), Foggy wanted Matt to disagree with him, to talk to Bee, to insult Rosalind behind her back, and to watch movies with Foggy.

Foggy wanted Matt to be _happy_ , and able to enjoy sex, and insisted that he had human rights.

Matt put the dough into the bowl to prove, and wondered a little hysterically _why the fuck_ he hadn’t put this together earlier. It seemed to be ridiculously obvious in retrospect. Matt felt like a complete idiot.

(Because Matt knew that now he was a slave he’d never be loved again.)

\--

Matt seemed _really_ twitchy.

Foggy couldn’t work out why; it lasted past him making those onion and pine nut rolls (which Foggy got six of--the other dozen went to Claire, who raised an eyebrow and said thank you) and well into the next few weeks.

Matt smiled a lot, and talked to Foggy, he wasn’t shut down and dead-eyed anymore, but he didn’t seem okay. He jumped and startled more; every time Foggy woke up, Matt’s eyes were bright in the darkness.

Foggy didn’t know what was wrong. He tried asking Matt, but that made Matt’s face get paler as he said something about papers or the suit.

The suit itself was going pretty well; Rosalind called Foggy every time there was an update. There were two more weeks before the actual in-front-of-a-judge hearing would take place, and in the meantime she had more than enough evidence to win, though she didn’t stop gathering. Apparently there had been a huge spate of cases of police brutality against slaves (though it was called ‘police damage of living property’ in legal terms, which made Foggy fume) and this case could ride on those waves.

But the fact that it was helped a hell of a lot by Matt being so obedient and traumatized and expensive made Foggy want to scream. It shouldn’t _matter_ that he would never disobey a police officer, or that Rosalind had bought him at somewhere around seven or eight million dollars. He still shouldn’t have been beaten until his face looked like one large, sharp-cheekboned wound, and he shouldn’t have been _raped_.

Foggy carefully confined himself to raging about this in Miriam’s office, voice getting louder and angrier until he yanked a pillow from the couch on his face and wordlessly screamed.

He also crocheted; it was weird, angrily crocheting while watching a movie, instead of getting his fingers buttery and shoveling in popcorn, but he liked it. Foggy decided to make something for Bee, because they were still skinny and probably had never had anyone make clothes for them before. They deserved a few things like that.

One day, on the eighteenth of March, Foggy was sitting on the couch and Matt was ‘showering’--probably jerking off, which he seemed to actually _do_ now, and each time he’d come out of the shower and tell Foggy about it and Foggy would hug him--he was halfway through a hat made in blues--turquoise variegated with teal and cyan and indigo and shimmery aquamarine, seafoam green splattered with in blue so dark it could be black and blue so pale it could be white--when it happened.

\--

Matt was in the shower, eyes closed, the handle of his backscrubber inside of him.

He had decided that since Foggy so clearly and so explicitly wanted Matt to enjoy sex that it was therefore Matt’s job to deliver. So he had made himself masturbate more and more often, desensitizing himself. There was always a few bad minutes at the beginning, but with sufficient cognitive-behavioural techniques (focusing on the source of his anxieties and debunking them as irrational for his current situation, mostly) and focus, he could push through them and get on with it.

Matt still couldn’t enjoy actually touching his cock. He wished he could; it would streamline the whole ordeal a great deal more, for one thing, and he knew his handjob technique was superb, but overall he just...couldn’t. Each time his fingers would jerk away like he’d been burned or touched something he wasn’t allowed, and no matter how hard he tried to reason it away he simply couldn’t enjoy it. Sometimes Matt found himself scratching at it, almost drawing blood, and he didn’t know when or why.

But once he’d pushed past the bad minutes, he could then enjoy the feeling of something inside of him, especially once he got the right angle. Then he could let his legs jerk and his hips thrust into it, and then he could come and have a pleasant glow--so long as he told Foggy about it. Once he did, he was usually allowed to curl up with him, rest his head on Foggy’s chest or knee or beautifully soft stomach, and Foggy would quietly reassure him that everything was okay, and Matt wasn’t doing anything wrong, and he didn’t have to and it was okay that he was doing it.

And once Matt had realized that the back-scratcher for the shower--really, a loofah attached to a interestingly-ribbed plastic handle--could be easily cleaned before and after use, well. He’d simply had to experiment.

(He knew that it was safer with toys specifically made for this sort of thing, but--Matt couldn’t ask Foggy. He _couldn’t_. Foggy would want to _fuck_ him, then, and then--

Matt had dissected it in his head, rolling over how he hadn’t caught Summer’s lie, and he realized that what he was so afraid of, what he really hated, was having to put on the performance. What made sex with Foggy so much worse than even other forms of sex--and other forms were disgusting--was that Matt had had to pretend he liked it, pretend to be the one _initiating_ , had to playact an elaborate deception. He felt like an actor thrust onto a play he was horrified by as the star without any lines, sweating under the spotlights.)

And once Matt got started, he let his mind drift. He thought about Foggy, usually, about what if Foggy one day wanted to fuck him like a proper owner; about the one who’d lent him to his brother, who had told Matt to scream and struggle and cry out how much he hated this, to faux-resist. And Matt imagined Foggy telling him he didn’t have to pretend to like it anymore, he didn’t even have to _smile_ , just be a good boy and milk his cock and then--

And then Matt imagined doing it just right and being rewarded, Foggy rubbing his nipples and telling him to come, that he’d earned it and feeling that fierce pride, _earning_ things by hard work felt so much better than being given them as charity, and then Matt imagined coming and being cleaned up and told to wriggle into soft, silken pajamas, and then the warm weighted blanket draped over him and being fed strawberries and good tea and kissed on his collar as Foggy told him how grateful he was.

(In some of his wilder fantasies, Matt imagined _telling_ Foggy all about this, about what he wanted, and Foggy saying _thank you for your honesty_ and then it actually happening--

But that was just a particularly unrealistic fantasy.)

Matt, for the most part, felt shaky and uncertain, terrified but putting on a brave smile. He tried to seem happy, tried to _be_ happy, but how could he be anything but scared now that he was in so much more danger?

And then one time Matt was in the shower, hips starting to move into the handle as Matt thrust and twisted it and gasped against the wall, warm spray over his chest, it happened.

 

\--

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Foggy's laptop screened turned bright white, and then segued into a smooth, dark, grayed-out blue as the voice started playing. Voices, in fact, one and then the other, each carefully sanitized and polished and sounding like they had practiced to be as unrecognizable as possible. Words scrolled across the screen in time with the sounds in pale pink.

"This is a message to all slaves in the United States, Canada, and Europe, and all the other slaves we have not yet freed.

"We are fighting for you. We are here for you. We will not give up on you. Our most recent victories have been primarily not in your countries or your areas, but that does not mean that you are trapped. Help is coming soon.

"It is important to stay calm. It is important to do anything and everything that you can to survive. It is important to remember that we will help you as soon as we can.

"In our new world, together, we will not forget you. We are not leaving you behind. You matter. You are important.

"Even if you have not participated in our movement, even if you do not, once you are free we will not punish you. There will not be any reprisals. You will be equal to all of us, because we have all always been equal.

"Your owners and your auctioneers, your masters and your evaluators, they have lied to you. It is not possible to put a monetary price on a human being.

"We are human. We are people. We are not things. And we will not forget about you. As the suppressed poet and abolitionist Audre Lorde said, _I am not free while any woman is unfree, even when her shackles are very different from my own_.

"This goes for all of us. We know that we are not free until you are also free. Join us if you choose--but we will still fight for you.

"You have not been forgotten."

Foggy stared at his screen as it flickered back to normal, mouth agape, and then Matt was out of the shower, flushed and in a towel, confused--

"I heard--there have been--" Matt swallowed. "Everything just played that message. Did it--was there anything that--are you alright, Foggy?"

Foggy was momentarily distracted by the sight of Matt, blushing and pupils open and beautifully round. His eyes were almost black, dark and rich like wet woods.

"Uh, yeah," he said finally. "Are you? That was kind of, um. Startling."

Matt blinked. "Yes, Foggy," he said eventually, and the tension in his shoulders came back, and Foggy bit his lip, trying to think.

"Matt," he started. "Matt, are you--you seem really tense lately," he said, going from the words Miriam and he had rehearsed. "And I know you've mentioned that that was from that criminal law paper, and from the suit, but..."

Foggy didn't exactly want to accuse Matt of lying, but he was fairly sure that he was, and, well. The rules did say it was okay for Matt to lie.

"The rules say that you can lie," Foggy said. "I remember that. I'm not upset. But," and he grabs for the words, "I really would like to know what's upsetting you, or three things I can do that would make you feel better about it," he articulated carefully.

Matt gnawed on his lip. It broke and bled, a thin scarlet line streaking down his chin. Foggy took a deep breath.

"You don't _have_ to tell me either," he said. "But I promise that if something's upsetting you and I can make it better--as long as you tell me how--I will do it. Even if that means that you don't want to tell me the problem but instead just how to make you feel better."

Matt swallowed, and his head drooped. Foggy took a deep breath, and waited, trying to be patient.

Eventually, Matt said quietly, "I--someone told me that you're in love with me."

\--

Matt waited, tense, for Foggy's reaction.

It had been an insane risk--one that he knew he shouldn't have taken, maybe, even as he said it, but--

Summer implied he should never say it, but--

Her previous advice had been wrong, which meant that her advice for this time could also be badly wrong. And as Matt thought about it, heart in his throat, he knew that Foggy was the exception to a lot of patterns about how owners were. Foggy was an outlier.

Foggy stopped having sex with Matt because Matt didn't like it. Foggy made the rule that he wasn't allowed to fuck Matt and Matt was allowed to lie to him. Foggy had cuddle parties and handfed Matt sushi and watched _But I'm A Cheerleader_ with him to cheer him up. Foggy liked that Matt got better grades.

Foggy didn't make sense. But one thing was very, very clear: Foggy liked honesty. He liked it when Matt was more vulnerable, more watery eyes than artifice and splendor.

Matt remembered when he told Foggy about the Candace problem, and Foggy hadn't hurt him then. Matt remembered when he'd told Foggy he hated sex, when he told him he wanted to keep being a doll--everything.

Foggy wasn't angry any of those times that Matt was upset or scared. Foggy didn't punish him for not being happy at all times. Foggy hadn't even  _really_ punished him for shouting at him.

(A part of Matt had started to lose respect for Foggy, just a little, after that.)

Maybe Foggy wouldn't punish him now. Or if he did, Matt thought, it would be a relief, and Foggy was such a stickler for rules, it would be so simple and predictable--he'd get slapped in the face and then Foggy would be a proper owner.

Either way, it would be more information, and Foggy genuinely seemed to really, really like soothing Matt, displacing his odd emotions onto Matt and feeding him strawberries and stroking his hair. Matt was Foggy's _doll_.

Foggy thought that Matt was a person--Foggy thought that _Matt_ was the delusional one.

So Matt was honest, not sure why--it felt like he'd put his fingers out to be broken--

(Matt was so _exhausted_ by having to lie, he hated it, he wanted it to be _over_ one way or another.)

And Foggy said, "Oh. Okay. So the idea of that scares you? That's why you've been so twitchy lately?"

Matt said, mindful of the rotting floorboards that could be under his feet, "I--yes, Foggy."

Foggy didn't sound _happy_ , but he didn't punish Matt. He didn't shout. He didn't tell him to sit there and put the rules through a shredder.

Instead, he said quietly, "Can I tell you what I mean by 'I love you' and then we can see if there's a way for me to make you less afraid of it?"

Matt felt his face startle into an expression of shock. He felt--

Something had broken off inside of him, and Matt breathed it out, feeling light-headed with relief. The pattern held.

Foggy wasn't angry. Foggy wasn't going to hurt him.

Matt hadn't fucked everything up.

\--

Foggy didn't touch Matt, but he did keep his voice quiet and not-angry.

"I do love you," he said, and it felt like finally uncramping a muscle, or maybe the moment when a headache went away. A lack of pain. Matt looked frightened, still, but also relieved, like he'd suspected Foggy would do something awful to him.

Foggy wanted to kill everyone who made Matt scared of being loved.

"I don't mean that I'm going to have sex with you," Foggy said. "I won't. Those are the rules. I mean that--"

He swallowed. Matt knew a lot of poetry; maybe this would work? Foggy pulled up the poem he'd bookmarked and talked to Miriam about, one session where he'd been trying to find the words to express how he felt about Matt.

"I see you, in my head, in this...golden light," Foggy said, looking at the poem. "And when I think of you/I do not hear bells/but instead a steady tapdance on a tin roof/as if you are the first spring shower.."

Matt's face had a..strange expression. Foggy stopped.

"I mean--I don't--I won't hurt you," he tried. Matt's face had that brief, microsecond of skepticism. Foggy almost snorted and almost screamed.

"I mean that I do love you," he said quietly. "And by that I mean I will do my best, always, to not hurt you. And you're not obligated to love me too. I probably wouldn't, if I were in your position."

Matt frowned, minutely, and Foggy kept going. "And if you ever feel like I'm going to hurt you, you still have to protect yourself. Does that clear things up?"

Matt nodded. "Yes, Foggy," he murmured.

"Okay," Foggy said. "Um. If you want to get dressed, we can cuddle, if you think that would make you feel better."

\--

Later, wrapped up in Foggy's arms, Matt began to puzzle it through.

Foggy hadn't punished him, and genuinely didn't seem angry. But all the same, Matt was still in a lot of danger.

Except. Well. How did he _know_ that?

By Summer, who had been wrong about Foggy.

Matt bit his lip and decided to ask Bee in the morning, and that night, drifted off to sleep, held in Foggy's warm arms.

 

\--

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Today in world news, the liberation of over half a million slaves took place in markets, auction houses, and private homes all over South America, Africa, and central and east Asia. Guards and owners were shot primarily with AK-47s and groups of slaves were freed and led out to planes, boats, and hijacked trains and vehicles flanked by groups of free native citizens of each nation.

"Several of the groups have been identified as members of particular religious sects, such as the Society of Friends and many branches of Judaism. Here you can see several such groups of free citizens shielding liberated slaves from the barrels of riot police and private market militias as they escorted them to safety. Four hundred casualties were recorded of these groups, and six thousand terminated slaves.

"In a statement released today by the president of Uruguay, slavery has been outlawed as of today and forever, and he has in addition promised to offer asylum to all escaped slaves as political refugees. In sharp contrast to his usual policy of strict democracy and forfeiting extra-legal powers, the president has stated that 'This is a moral matter, this is a matter of human rights, and they are not decided by popular vote'.

"Today the American Civil Liberties Union also declared two victories in the US court system. One was the ruling by the Supreme Court on the case United States v Tentenburg Theater--the ruling being that movies and other media about fictional liberation of slaves can no longer be banned as possibly inciting violence.

"The decision was 5-4, with the dissenting opinion by Justice Scalia asserting that this will only lead to greater violence and terrorism, and the majority opinion was written by Justice Ginsberg, defending freedom of speech and championing America as a nation for whom censorship only stifles the freedoms we hold dear.

"The other victory today was a repeal of the martial laws in New York and several other cities that outlaw the free movement of slaves without their owners present.

"Other martial laws are still under dispute, but the law was overturned today in the New York Supreme Court, with an amendment to previous laws requiring slaves that are outside of owners' residences without a owner or handler be tagged with clearly visible contact information and be carrying written proof of permission.

"A spokesperson for the ACLU stated in remarks, "It is a good step on the road to regaining full civil liberties. The rights of all Americans must be respected.

"As a celebration of the Supreme Court's decision on United States v Tentenburg Theater, showings of the abolitionist movie _Mad Max: Fury Road_ will be free for the next week for all those who come with a slave, as sponsored by the charity Ex Slave to Citizen, ESC.

"In computers, phones, tablets, and devices all across the world today at approximately 6:30PM, Eastern US time, a message was played. Computer analysts have found that the message was spread primarily by a virus distributed through social media and contacts, designed to be asymptomatic and difficult to detect as such, but also designed to be as infectious as possible. News reports say that attempting to shut off devices in the middle of the message caused memory problems for the devices. Some claims by pro-slavery activists have alleged that the message contains subliminal programming and has the potential to cause violence, but these allegations remain unproven.

"Finally, an anthology of writings by former slaves has also been released for publication today, featuring essays, poetry, creative fiction and nonfiction, and other writings and art by over fifty contributors. The book is called _Broken Shackles: Repoliticizing Freedom_ and is available on Amazon.com, though already Barnes  & Noble and other prominent bookstore chains have refused to stock it, citing poor customer reactivity."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from the proverb from Night Vale's episode 19B: The Sandstorm, Part 2.


	124. no one asks about the hole in your chest. its constant spill down the front of your shirt, the rancid, oozing stench.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for mentions of pedophilia, abuse, rape culture, and rage coupled with a panic attack.

Bee stayed up the night reading their new book.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It had been more than worth the money, and they’d spent it without thinking, buying both the eBook and the print copy to be sent later. And then they’d glanced at the table of contents, opening the eBook on their tablet, and seen the first essay, called “Slaying the Dragon: Why We Must Tell Our Stories” and the rest was history.

Their eyes had been glued to the screen, through “Slaying the Dragon: Why We Must Tell Our Stories” ( _Fiction influences us far more than facts...you can tell free people the truth until you drop dead, but they’ll never believe you. If we want to connect with one another and truly change things, we need to tell **stories.**_ ) all the way to the very last section: “In Defense of Freedom: Breaking the Wheel” ( _What does it meant to be free? Being free means you have the right to rape. The right to hurt. The right to whip. The right to buy and sell people as if they’re meat...I do not want to be free in this world where that means that you can always become your worst nightmare. I want to be free in a world where nobody is unfree._ )

(Bee loved, in particular: _Protectionists are to slaves as the ‘kind’ domestic abuser is to his victim: always bringing home flowers after destroying their victims’ self-esteem and cutting them off from any source of comfort and safety...A kick and a kiss, over and over, until you don’t know which is which, until they say that the kick is the real kiss...Just because you give us sticker charts and a piece of cake every time we choke on your cocks or scrub your floors doesn’t make you a good person, nor us any less raped and enslaved and degraded._ )

They’d read poems that made their heart pound and stomach wrench, essays that tore apart Protectionists and Traditionalists and everyone else, short stories that made them double over and convulse with laughter, speeches that made them feel full of Christmas lights, bright and warm against black winter nights, pages and pages of things unspeakable and unspoken.

 

They read about things they'd never heard of: specific deconstructions of the practice of selling disabled adults, ruthless studies on the psychological trauma of slavery, screams that felt like church sermons sounded on television channels about the horrors and anxiety of generations that grew up under the pervasive threat of being enslaved if they misbehaved. Collectivist values and intra-communal cooperation and sexual dynamics and complications of gender ( _If gender is based on division of labor, why are slaves men or women, when free men and women don't do the same work at all?_ ) 

 

They read about things they'd heard of as boogeymen: zombies, baby farms, organ farms, body farms. Snuff-bait conventions and the Tampa Bay market and criminal enslavement and bomb implants and shock collars, thumb removals and castrations and clitoridectomies and breast implants and cheekbone shavings and tongue splitting and vocal cord scratching and barcode tattoos.

 

They read and read, and despite the cornucopia of horrors, it felt very _alive_ in a way. Everything said  _we are people, this happens, this is bad and wrong and should not be._ They nuzzled Anthea and stayed awake, nestled in blankets and pillows.

Bee felt like their ribs were breaking apart from joy and horror and recognition. It was like eating after being so hungry you’d stopped consciously feeling it, numbness giving way to satiation. They were enraptured.

\--

One poem that really, honestly _hurt_ was called _eighty one ceiling tiles_ , and at first Bee couldn’t understand it. And then when they did, it felt like being kicked between their legs, like a knife in their toe. Like being naked again in the Director’s office, staring at the teddy bear and not anything else.

_i stare at the ceiling_  
_counting tiles_  
_one by one by one_  
_in sevens and thirteens_  
_naming them georgina_  
_harold chad jonathan the elder_  
_jonathan’s the moldy one_  
_congealed suffusing through the air_  
_i stare at the ceiling_  
_counting how many have water stains_  
_like halos or tears_  
_like bloodstains spreading out_  
_i stare at the ceiling_  
_i count sides angles corners_  
_play tricks with my mind_  
_see how fast i can count them all_  
_syllables hot potatoes_  
_i stare at the ceiling_  
_not counting not thinking_  
_i want not to think_  
_i want not to be here_  
_blood spreading out like a halo on the mattress_  
_i stare at the ceiling_  
_counting tiles by alphabet_  
_by roman numeral by sesame street_  
_in threes and fives and six point eights_  
_i stare at the ceiling_  
_counting_  
_when he pulls out of me_  
_he pats my hair with his crowbar hands_  
_and turns off the light_  
_as he leaves._

\--

 

Another poem, though, that made them smile and think of Matt was called "SLAVES DO NOT HAVE POEMS".

_slaves do not have poems. slaves have_  
_collars, not beautiful or engagement rings,_  
_even when adorned with glittering-sea_  
_child’s-blood diamonds. slaves do not_  
_have poems. slaves have papers, shuffled_  
_to the same beat as the devil’s deck_  
_whenever he plays cards for souls._  
_(watch out. there’s three jacks in there.)_  
_slaves do not have poems. slaves have_  
_brands and scars, the cartography of_  
_kansas city and angry hands and made-in-china_  
_whips. slaves do not have poems. slaves_  
_have sagging breasts, wrinkles, fetish market_  
_value. slaves do not have poems. slaves_  
_have bad or good attitudes, useful or worthless_  
_behaviours, sticker charts. slaves do not_  
_have poems. slaves have vacuum-sealed_  
_stomachs, screaming thighs, knees in their_  
_nineties when slaves are in their twenties._  
_slaves do not have poems. slaves have_  
_thumb-stumps, wired-shut jaws, hair dyed_  
_and shaved according to industry standards,_  
_lines and lines of dull straw glinting in the sun._  
_slaves do not have poems. slaves have stolen_  
_mangoes, sticky and devoured, and shared punishments,_  
_lies to make the owner happy, frantic whispers_  
_in the night. slaves do not have poems. slaves have_  
_silent rituals of sharing a floor, one safe under another_  
_instead of a winter quilt. slaves do not have poems. slaves_  
_have cages. slaves are caged birds singing. slaves_  
_do not have poems. slaves have poems_  
_that free people claim other **free** people wrote_  
_for slaves. because slaves do not have poems._  
_because there is nothing in slave's life_  
_worth writing a poem about._

 

\--

Around six AM, their phone buzzed and Bee silently groaned, rolling over and reaching for it. It had to be Matt, because that was the only person who texted them--the girl with the bunny, not-Amanda, who _still_ hadn’t picked a different name didn’t know how to write, and most other people from the group were scared of phones or indifferent to them or hadn’t bought them yet or were paranoid about being tracked.

(Bee knew better. They knew they were already being tracked, by the government and others. _Someone_ had _known_ to send that email; each person in the group had clearly been picked to make sure none of them were welchers or snitches.)

It read _I have a difficult but important topic to discuss with you. Can I ask you over email?_

_Sure_ , Bee texted back. _Why not texts?_

_It’s quieter to use the Braille keyboard than whisper to my phone, and I’m not sure how to delete them without asking Foggy, but my browser history deletes itself every 17 seconds, and all emails from you delete themselves every 6 minutes._

Bee raised an eyebrow. That seemed unusually rebellious for Matt. _Why?_

A long wait in the slowly-lightening dark.

_Summer always said to make sure your owners aren’t bogged down with unnecessary information about unimportant slave-to-slave business. And when he bought it, Foggy specifically said no keylogging or tracking or filtering programs._

Bee squinted at the screen. Even the cunts’ computers had had filter programs, the type that refused to load pages of abolitionist websites, information about slave institutions, gambling chatrooms, those sorts of things. And at the actual training institute, there had been more filtering, keylogging, and tracking software than actual programs.

Then Bee realized they needed to pee, left the room, locked their door, peed, washed their hands, went back to their room, grabbed their laptop, positioned Anthea so her face was buried in Bee’s chest, and read the email.

It was one line. _Is Foggy more dangerous now that he’s in love with me?_

Bee blinked, and contemplated. _I think--_ no, they erased that. _~~I really think~~ Maybe it’s that ~~yes obviously it’s really dangerous holy shit Matt~~ I don’t know ~~please don’t get killed I can’t~~ if it’s as dangerous as people say ~~but what the hell do people know about slavery~~ \--_

Bee realized their eyes were stinging, and breathed deeply, starting over.

_I think that owners who love their slaves like owners do in collar-rippers are dangerous. I think owners like Christian Grey in the book are dangerous. I think owners who are Protectionists are dangerous. ~~All owners are dangerous~~ All owners are dangerous._

_But whenever I read anything about love, it all says that there’s fake love and real love, and if you read carefully you can tell that people don’t agree on what real love is. And from what I can tell--if you have real love for someone, you don’t hurt them. Not on purpose. Not because they make you angry, or don’t love you back, or whatever. And if you have fake love for someone you do hurt them and then you tell them that you love them so they don't fight back. Remember how that's basically what happened to Anna?_

_And I don’t know if real love is just an ideal, or if that exists, or what Foggy feels or means. Or what he’ll do to you. But maybe it’s not as dangerous as before. Owners are more generous with their more favorite slaves, right? (Not like I’d really know.) So take advantage of it. If you can get more food and rest and goodwill, you should take it with both hands._

\--

It’s on Friday at the group as Emilia shows them a pirated copy of the movie _Mad Max_ that Bee realizes something very beautiful:

It’s what they want Matt to hear. And Matt still owes them a favor.

 

\--

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Matt’s not sure what to think as he’s dragged to the movie.

Bee had said it was their favor that Matt owed them for Christmas, and Matt had agreed, and Foggy had agreed. His gut twists anxiously as he realizes Bee’s taking him to the new _abolitionist_ movie, the where even the trailers are banned on most television networks, but he forces himself to remain calm as Bee hands the ticket people their ticket and written permission by Foggy to bring Matt to the movie.

Bee buys two bottles of something and wordlessly hands Matt one as they guide him--clumsily, not like Foggy, but not badly enough to actually injure or trip him--to the theatre and a seat. He opens it and gulps down one, two, three mouthfuls of ice-cold water as he taps a thanks, hoping it’ll make him calm.

It doesn’t. The air fills with the chemical-carbonation-cornsyrup aroma of Bee’s cherry coke, and Matt feels nauseated at the overwhelming stench of butter and flavored popcorns (white cheddar, jalapeño, garlic and onions).

The movie has descriptions, begins with a quiet female voice describing the rolling road, and so Matt can’t even use the usual excuse of not being _capable_ of fully following or understanding the movie.

He braces himself and leans into the story.

\--

Bee’s bouncing as they walk Matt home afterwards, grinning. Their cherry coke had a lot of caffeine and sugar, and even if they can’t taste it, there’s still something weirdly delightful about getting to drink it. Slaves weren’t given fancy sodas like this, especially not slaves that couldn’t really enjoy them.

[What did you think of it?]

There’s a long silence. Matt’s face is shrouded in the fluorescents, his eyes hidden by the glasses. [Children are different.]

Bee frowns. [What?]

[Children are different. Of course they wanted to get their children away from him.]

[What?] Bee has no idea what he’s talking about. [They weren’t doing it for the babies. Dag didn’t want hers, Angharad was fine with getting hers in danger. They were doing it for them.]

Matt’s silent again for a while. Then, [Well, they were people. People shouldn’t be treated like slaves.]

Bee’s mouth opens and then they shut the stupid useless thing, clenching their jaw. Goddamnit. What wasn’t he getting? Why wasn’t it making him feel cracked open with hope and rage?

But then they take a deep breath and walk. Maybe it’ll take a while for it to sink in.

They get to two blocks away before Matt goes pale and stops walking.

\--

Foggy is unbelievably frustrated. Candace is here.

Which shouldn’t be a thing that makes him want to scream, but alas, things have changed. And he’s been trying to make her leave for at least a half an hour, but she’s yelling back things about apologies and she _came_ to say _sorry_ for ‘trying to poach his slave’ and she understands that Foggy’s overly protective of him but really, she wasn’t going to hurt Matt and she understands that she crossed a line and she’s _sorry_ , now why is he trying to make her leave, doesn’t he _understand_ \--

“I UNDERSTAND that you don’t know the fucking meaning of an actual apology,” Foggy’s shouting. “I fucking UNDERSTAND that you don’t _understand_ that you’re still not allowed to see Matt either--”

“I want to fucking APOLOGIZE to him!” Candace is screaming. “I want to explain that I won’t fucking use him, that I get that he’s not mine and what I did wasn’t cool--”

“ _Attempted **rape**_ is more than ‘NOT COOL’,” Foggy screams back. “Which you clearly don’t fucking understand so no, you can’t apologize, I don’t care if you feel bad, you are still dangerous to be around Matt so you need to leave HIS FUCKING HOME--”

“I don’t understand why you’re treating me like I’m some big bad fucking WOLF,” Candace snarls, her voice louder with every volley. “I am your _younger sister_ , in case you’ve forgotten, and he was hot and there and I was lonely, I’ve been _so fucking lonely_ because I had to take a year off to get my shit together and guess what, I’m still a fucking mess--”

“And that sucks, but cool motive, still _ATTEMPTED RAPE!_ ” He’s bellowing at the top of his lungs now, losing it. Now that he’s said the words to her face, named it, he can’t calm down, can’t stop seeing crimson, can’t stop thinking about everyone who’s ever hurt Matt, about women named Sharon and men named Robert, about the names in the papers he won’t read, about the fucking NYPD.

He can’t calm down, except just as he gathering breath to scream more, the doorbell rings. Foggy blinks and goes to open it, hoping with lead in his stomach that it’s not Matt.

It’s not. It’s Bee, whose tablet says, “Matt won’t come in because Candace is here. He says he’ll be in once she’s gone.”

Candace groans loudly. “God! What the fuck!”

“I told him not to be in the same room as you,” Foggy says, feeling a sudden surge of grateful relief that Matt’s protecting himself. He’ll have to tell him he’s doing a good job of that later.

Bee nods. “Anyway, the movie was good--”

The rest of the text-to-speech voice is drowned out by Candace, who then says, “Are _you_ also--oh god, has Foggy been telling you all that melodramatic shit about ‘rape’ again, too? Is that why you’re giving me a death glare?”

Actually, Foggy thinks, before it was Bee’s normal expression of contempt for most free people before, and now it’s an ugly stare of cold hatred. It makes him feel uncomfortable to be in the same room as it.

“I don’t like people who try to rape my friends.”

Candace sighs. “I wasn’t going to--that’s not even what the word means. I was just gonna, you know. Take him for a drive. Put my foot on the pedals. Dance with my pants off. Let him into my chamber of secrets,” And at that she starts to sound amused, going on to “Poke around in his jukebox, reorganize the junk in the trunk, frickle-frackling, doing the do with you-know-who, flogging his turtle, m-making the bald man cry--”

And that must be some sort of joke, because she starts laughing, and Foggy cringes with secondhand embarrassment, peeking to see if this will further lower Matt’s best friend’s opinion of Foggy as well.

Except that Bee’s staring at Candace, not Foggy, and there’s a look that prefaces a chainsaw murder on their face, twisting it into something twitching and homicidal and vicious as they look at her, and without even looking down they have their tablet say, “You think people being raped is funny?”

“Well, that’s kind of--over-generous, I mean--I wasn’t--” Candace protests. “It was just a joke--”

“The first time I was raped, I was four. Is that funny?”

 

\--

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bee wants to kill Candace.

Bee looks at the knives, the plates. There's a cast-iron pan, they've seen slaves bleed when they're beaten by them. Surely if they took it, they could use it to cave in Candace Nelson's stupid fucking head.

Their fingers itch to pull out eyeballs, to hold the poultry shears Matt had tried to show them how to use to snip off her tongue, to take the table and slam it down and break all her limbs.

(Sometimes, in the institution, if someone needed medical but wasn't going to get it without something more fixable happening first, they would drop a table on their arm assembling them before sunrise. Worked every time.)

Bee's never wanted anything more in their life. But.

But. Witnesses. Foggy's right there. Matt's somewhere nearby. Matt is outside, cold. Matt is their best friend. Matt would probably not help hide the body.

But. If they are charged. If they are found guilty. If they have a collar on their neck again.

(In Bee's very worst nightmares, it's not that they kill themselves as soon as they're re-enslaved.

It's that they break, and smile, and flutter their eyelashes, and go soft and docile even inside their head.)

Their hands are shaking.

Bee focuses. Types. Not much, takes too long. Turns the volume to painfully loud. But then their mind blanks of words, of English.

They sign instead, cut off her stupid words. Bee doesn't know what she said. Everything sounds like it's in a bathtub. Something something sorry what are you talking about something something.

Nobody understands it as Bee signs, fluid and fast, but they do it anyway: _you're disgusting and a bad person and I want so badly to tear out your cunt and make you eat it and hurt you I want to rip out your guts and fuck you with them so you understand how it feels to lie there hurt and raped and having filth ooze into you and you're not allowed to shower for days so you have to go to class with it crusted on and everyone can see but I want you to **die** you deserve it you deserve to be locked in a cage and not given any water you should be the one suffering not me not Matt_.

And then they take a deep breath and say in a language she presumably speaks, using fingers that are no longer trembling, "You think it's funny to rape people?"

"I don't--no--" And she's backing away. Bee snarls, steps forward, knowing that they're not Matt but they have teeth and there's nothing more they want than the feeling of her fucking arteries stuck between them, probably like any other stringy bit of meat--

"You think it's funny that I was four and raped? That people rape slaves and nobody will ever do anything about it?"

"No, no, that's not what I said--"

Bee shakes, clenches fists. Breathes. The anger feels overwhelming. They're dizzy. "You're a cunt, and I hope you die. You are a bad person, and if you rape someone or you think it's funny that people are raped, you should die. And I hope it hurts. You deserve it."

They advance, and Candace runs into the hallway, stupid eyes wide. Things go blank. Foggy goes out and talks to her but then she goes away.

Matt's tapping at the living room window. Bee opens it and sits down and can't stand back up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from Jeanann Verlee's "How to Talk to Dead Girls", here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/113974366087/they-console-you-over-the-dog-because-she-was


	125. rejoice! our times are intolerable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in this chapter for panic attacks, transmisogyny, misgendering, rape-culture-logic, forced transition, and mentions of rape.

Candace ran home.

She hastily unlocked the door, hands shaking, and ran inside, breathing hard. She sank down, and saw Mom staring at her.

“Candace?”

“Mom,” she said desperately, and stood up and hugged her. Mom squeezed her back. “Mom, I--I--” She stuttered, and faltered, and fell silent. A part of her just wanted to go to bed and forget all about it, wake up in the morning and help Dad in the shop and not think about it ever again, those horrible words or the horrible stare in Bee’s eyes.

(She’d thought--well, okay, she hadn’t quite thought they were friends, but she’d thought they were sort-of working their way up there, Candace coaxing our Bee to watch funny shows sometimes and offering to paint her-- _their_ nails and do their hair as it grew back out, and trying to take them shopping for nicer clothes, all of theirs looked well-thrifted but still secondhand to Candace’s cultivated eye.

She’d thought she’d apologize to Foggy and he’d have been cooled off enough to accept it this time, and then they’d hug it out and he’d offer her cookies and Matt would relax too and she’d get to sit next to him again and watch _Cupcake Wars_ and listen to Matt’s commentary and then things would be _fine_.

She hadn’t expected any of this. Everything was horribly wrong and she couldn’t deal with it.)

“Tell me what happened,” Mom prompted gently as she led them to the couch. Her hair was down and loose, out of its work-buns, but Candace could recognize that tone and straight-backed posture, and sighed internally. Mom was putting on her psychiatrist’s meatsuit.

She explained, and didn’t say exactly _what_ Foggy had said or Bee had screamed through their weird tablet, because--because--because well, did it really matter? It was awful and you weren’t supposed to say those sorts of things to people, and especially not to your little sisters.

But by the end, Mom still hadn’t reacted. She sighed, and sat backwards, and then got up and poured herself what sounded like a vodka tonic.

Candace’s stomach fluttered. “Mom?”

“You know, back when I did couples counseling as well as individual patients,” Mom said, and came back over, sitting down heavily, “I recognized this pattern after a while. Usually with my heterosexual patients, and usually it was very gendered, but of course there were outliers.

“The pattern went something like this: they’d come in and I’d ask each person, privately, what they felt the problems were in their marriage. Sometimes I’d ask them to write it down. And the wife or girlfriend would have an entire organized list of grievances and patterns and deep-seated issues: his career was killing him, she didn’t feel respected, he didn’t keep up his end of agreed-upon bargains, she ended up doing all the childcare, he never kept to plans, he was cheating or she suspected he was cheating, and so on and so forth.

“And the husband or boyfriend’s most common answer was ‘I don’t know.’ They didn’t know. Very often they were being served divorce papers if they wouldn’t try counseling, and they sat there and claimed to not know. Not a clue. ‘I can’t read her mind’.

“And if I pressed them, they’d say ‘She’s crazy. She’s hysterical and I can’t understand her at all. She can’t let things go’. They would not take any responsibility for their actions or acknowledge that their partners could have a legitimate disagreement or grievance against them.

“And when I worked with them for a while, even when they admitted to the wrongdoings that they actually did, confessed to the affairs and the financial lies and to never taking the children off her hands for a night, they still got stuck on how they felt hurt by their wives and girlfriend’s anger. They refused to acknowledge that people had a right to be angry at them over their mistreatment. And if they didn’t accept that, most the time their relationships didn’t survive a month.

“Of course, part of this was just contempt for women, but a bigger part of it was that they had decided a priori what kind of people they were. They said to themselves that they were good husbands, good fathers, good men, and so they refused to hear anything that contradicted that view of themselves.”

Mom took a deep drink. Candace frowned. “Mom, what does this have to do with--”

“One minute and _then_ I will circle back to you. Now, in individual counseling a similar pattern emerges, in my experience. With my female patients, the majority of the time they require help only taking responsibility for their own actions, and with my male patients, the majority of the time they require help taking responsibility for _any_ of their own actions. But there are exceptions--women who won’t take any responsibility and men who take far too much. And Candace, you’re acting like one of them.”

Candace felt her lip wobble. “I don’t get it. I just--why are they _so angry_ with me--”

Mom said, “No. You said Foggy yelled at you?”

Candace nodded, tears prickling at her eyes.

“Did he yell at you in, say, Klingon? Or that elective he’s taking--Punjabi? Did he put his hand in front of his mouth and mumble it?”

“N--no, mom,” she said. “But--”

“Did Bee solely shout at you with sign language, or did they use their speech device? Was the sound loud enough for you to understand?”

“Yeah, but--”

“But nothing. They spoke to you in a language you are fluent in in a manner you could comprehend. You’re smart, Candace,” and Mom was reaching over to wrap an arm around her, lean Candace into her side, “You’re smart enough to know.”

Candace buried her face into Mom’s shoulder. “I just--they think I was gonna, I was going to--” and she stopped, not wanting to say the words.

“That you were going to what?”

“Foggy called it attempted rape,” Candace blurted out. “He did. He called it attempted rape and Bee said she--shit, no, they said that they thought I thought rape was funny and Mom, they’re just blowing up over nothing--”

Mom made a quiet, angry sound. “ _No._ Do you remember how your brother wasn’t here on Christmas? Do you remember how you had to not be here for _any_ part of New Year’s Eve for him to agree to come and take Matt with him? This is not nothing.”

“But--”

“Your brother’s closest friend _threw himself down the stairs in my house_ ,” Mom said, relentless. “You made my house unsafe.”

“I wasn’t going to rape anyone!” Candace snapped, unable to handle any of this. “I wasn’t--I was just trying to kiss him--”

“And you _wouldn’t_ have kept pressing on if nobody stopped you? You’re telling me that you wouldn’t have kept going?”

Candace...closed her mouth. She wouldn’t have--it wouldn’t have been-- “I wasn’t going to--I would have stopped if he said no! That was just--it was just flirting, I wouldn’t’ve…” Her voice trailed off. She couldn’t say it convincingly. She slumped down on the couch, not even able to believe it herself anymore.

“You don’t sound like you believe that,” Mom said quietly, and took another sip of her drink.

Candace sighed. “I said I was sorry.”

“To whom?”

“Well, I’m not ‘allowed’ to talk to Matt and I was trying to apologize to Foggy for, I guess, borrowing his Matt without asking--”

Mom groaned quietly. “Candace--”

“No, look, what am I supposed to do? How exactly am I supposed to fix this if I’m not allowed to apologize to anyone, not Foggy and not Matt? What do you want me to say?” She felt incredibly, inexpressibly frustrated. She’d been trying and trying to make this better and nobody was appreciating it at all.

“I want you to understand what you did wrong and stop trying to _fix_ this,” Mom said. “You can’t fix this. You can’t take back what happened and frankly, Foggy is right to not trust you around someone you sexually assaulted.”

“Sexually--it was a _kiss_!” Candace cried out, incredulous. She felt like she’d been punched in the stomach.

“And if someone forcibly kissed _you_ that’s what we’d press charges for.” Mom said, angrier than Candace had ever seen her before, her eyes bright and burning.

She drew back, and then took another deep breath. “Okay, if it really was that bad, if--” And then she caught up with what Mom had said. ‘What do you mean I should stop trying to fix this?”

“I mean that you should stop treating reasonable responses to your actions like a problem,” Mom said. “And you should focus on changing your actions so your own brother can trust you around his closest friend. You should become--god, Candace, I thought I really had raised you better than that.”

Candace took a deep breath and rubbed at her eyes, realizing they were wet.

“No, Candace--come here,” Mom said, and hugged her closer. “It’s not--this isn’t the end of the world. You can change.”

“He hates me, doesn’t he?” She sobbed out, thinking about Foggy shouting right in her face. “He hates me, and I didn’t even mean to--”

“No, shh,” Mom said, rubbing her back. “Your brother texted me tonight after you left his apartment, asking me to make sure you got home safe. He’s angry at you, and he’s probably not going to trust you for a very long time, not with Matt, but he doesn’t hate you.”

Candace sniffled and broke into fresh sobs, holding onto Mom, feeling like a kid again when she broke Foggy’s toy or spilled on his book and he wouldn’t forgive her for a couple of days.

But this was so much bigger. She didn’t know how she was going to make it up to him this time, or Matt--and oh god, how did you even make it up to someone, when you--if you--

She couldn’t even think the words, but she knew that she’d fucked up this time on an entirely new level. Candace held onto her mother and cried, and when she was finished, she took some deep breaths, got her newest journal, and asked Mom what she should do next.

 

\--

 

Bee couldn’t breathe.

They were sitting on a floor and they couldn’t breathe, lungs working frantically and vision wavering in and out, black spots appearing in the middle and growing bigger as they started to convulse.

Then something was pushing against their stomach, their diaphragm, in and out, forcing them to breathe, and they could see again, everything turning scarlet, anger overtaking raw animal panic, and they lashed out at the arm against them, hitting as hard as they could, chasing it as it retreated, trying to get it off get it away _get OFF of me don’t fucking touch me I’ll kill you I’ll **kill** you_ \--

Except the hands backed away, and Bee realized with a jolt of sickening humiliation that they’d been screaming, or trying to scream, all that, and their throat hurt from the raw noises coming out, tiny small sounds and not the towering scream they wanted. They scrambled backwards, hunching over with shame, they hadn’t--they hadn’t tried to scream out loud since those first few weeks after the back of mouth had healed completely, stitches out and scarring heavy and oppressive, and had realized that they couldn’t.

Bee breathed and shook, they’d--they’d said it to someone else, to someone who wasn’t safe, to fucking _Candace_ who’d hurt Matt, and the weight of the words made them feel furious all over again, flushing hot with rage. How fucking _dare_ she stand there and giggle at her stupid awful fucking unfunny joke and how dare she run away from what she was and who she was and what a fucking goddamn worthless cunt she was--

And suddenly in front of them, through the light-headed tunnel vision, was Anthea, their beautiful, perfectly soft and fuzzy teddy bear, the one they’d made themselves and named themselves and always treated right and which made their unrelenting panic quiet, and their hands grabbed her and squeezed her to their chest, sucking in deeper and deeper breaths, rocking back and forth.

Their vision cleared, and Bee still felt like they could kill someone, but they could see in front of them. Nobody was right there, and they were sitting in Foggy Nelson’s living room. Matt wasn’t near them. Nobody was near them.

They stood up and grabbed onto the wall as they were immediately assaulted by a wave of dizziness.

“Bee?” Matt murmured, and they turned and saw him standing near the table, looking worried.

They stumbled forward to be closer, and took more deep breaths, one thumb rubbing Anthea’s fur. They were okay. Whatever had happened, whatever would happen, they were still alive and whole and free, and that meant that it would be okay.

And, they smiled triumphantly to themselves, they had made Candace _leave_.

They walked forward more, and grabbed their tablet, and made it say, “Thank you.”

“No thanks necessary,” Matt said. “I take it you’re feeling better now?”

Bee nodded, and then froze.

They’d hit Matt.

They hadn’t meant to, but those had been _Matt’s_ hands, now that they thought about it, those had been Matt’s hands and Matt’s arm that they’d lashed out at and hit and gone to hit more but couldn’t because they were so out of breath. And this wasn’t whacking Matt on the arm because he was being an idiot or playfully smacking his leg for being ridiculous, this was--they’d wanted to _hurt_ him--

“Bee?”

“I’m sorry,” and the phrase was programmed in as one button. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Matt looked confused. Bee elaborated. “I hit you. I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “It’s fine.”

“I hit you,” Bee typed again, other hand squeezing Anthea tight. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

“It’s quite alright,” Matt said, face softening even more, trying to _comfort_ them, and they couldn’t take it. They didn’t deserve it. “You were clearly not thinking. It was an instinctual reaction, and I’m not hurt.”

They realized their heart was ricocheting off their ribcage again, and they were shaking. No, nothing was fine, they had _hit_ Matt, they were--they were _just like them_ \--

And Matt could hear that, couldn’t he, and that was why he was saying, “It’s okay, I’m fine, I’m not angry, it’s okay, you didn’t hurt me,” over and over again as Bee fell apart, grabbing onto the kitchen table where their tablet had been left and trying to breathe through the soup-thick panic.

And then they heard sounds of Matt moving around, getting the kettle out and shuffling spices around and chopping something and--what was he doing?

They managed to tap on the table with one unsteady finger, heart thready, [What are you doing?]

“Making you tea,” Matt said softly. “On some of the more...pivotal nights of my life, and when I was sick or..having a bad reaction, she used to make me a specific tea. Of course, I don’t have all her ingredients, and she did say to not make it exactly as hers, but this will do.”

Bee forced themselves to squeeze Anthea, press their face into the wood, _breathe_. It helped that they could smell the tea as Matt made and steeped it; they couldn’t identify most of the smells, and couldn’t exactly smell them as strongly as everyone else could, but they added up to a good aroma, making their mouth water.

Matt poured it into a mug, added honey and stirred, and set it down before them where they were still bending over the table, shuddering. “Here,” he said gently. “You may feel better if you sit down to drink it.”

They sat on the floor instead of in the nearby chair, and on the fourth try raised the stirring spoon above the surface without immediately spilling it all back into the cup. Then they brought it to their mouth and, as usual, tasted nothing at all, but smelled it several times, cupping it in both hands, Anthea between their bony knees.

(It hurt _so much more_ to kneel after they’d gotten skinny. At training, they hadn’t been fat but they hadn’t been skeletal, either, and once they lost the fat they missed it badly. Nowadays it was a little bit better, their nails staying on and their hair no breaking constantly and they could get warm, but they wanted to keep gaining more weight, get stronger, get warmer, sit down without having to be careful to not knock their pelvis, get big and stay big.)

Bee drank, and drank, and Matt drank his own cup, kneeling across from them, and they felt better afterwards. “I’m sorry I hit you. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know it was you.”

“Of course,” Matt murmured, and then teased gently, “Don’t apologize to me like I’m a person.”

Bee gaped at him and threw the spoon; Matt caught it and they both laughed breathlessly for a little moment.

“I asked my owner,” Matt said, “And he approved you sleeping on the couch if you need to, or me walking you back to your dorm.”

Bee considered it. It was so, so late, and pitch-black outside now. How long had they spent panicking and lashing out? And the couch, second-hand and from some relative of Foggy’s, was so comfortable to sleep on. It didn’t pull out but that hardly mattered; it was better than most beds.

And they didn’t have a toothbrush, or their towel for showering, or any of their other things. They had their wallet ( _their_ wallet, picked out and blue leather and smooth) and their backpack, which had their laptop and homework, and they had an extra hoodie in there, and they had Anthea.

But they hadn’t had a toothbrush or a towel or a shower, in fact, for months or years at a time before. They could sleep here and go back to classes in the morning.

“Can I stay here?”

“I shall double-check,” Matt said, and Bee watched him stand up gracefully and walk away, lithe and elegant. Their gut squirmed with guilt, but they knew better than to not take a good opportunity when you saw one. They hadn't gotten free by turning people down, especially not Foggy Nelson.

 

\--

 

She checked CNN on her phone as her plane landed.

It was always a weird experience reading the news nowadays. It used to her job to read the news, along with everything else: remember, buy, write, and send birthday cards to everyone appropriate in her mistress’s social circle, keep the kitchen stocked with staples and groceries for the meals the house-slaves would cook, of course adjusting the foods in the house to the mistress’s diets and desires, oversee the punishments of all the other slaves so the mistress didn’t have to feel upset at their suffering, ensure that the vacuuming, dusting, mopping, cleaning-out of fridges and such, dishes and scrubbing of dishwashers was all being done safely, competently, and on schedule, make appointments with the mistress’s doctors, therapists, financiers, dentists, hairstylists and friends, buy presents for everyone appropriate in the mistress’s social circle, ensure that any relevant purchases were sent back if necessary, and read and summarize the relevant news and current events.

Before that she’d been master’s doll, and a good one too: she went with him to horse races and snuff-bait conventions and slept in his bed and laughed at his racist jokes and spoke to the waitress about the improperly-cooked poached eggs he’d been served and used his credit card to pay for his purchases in store, with him standing there smirking at the clerk. _See what I can do to you?_ that smirk said. _I can make you interact with my **slave**._ But then master had gotten married and she’d no longer been required to wake him up with breakfast and a blowjob, instead been required to sleep in the slaves’ basement with the others, and she’d realized sharply that her snootiness wouldn’t get her anywhere with _them_.

(Some churches said you should never have sex with anyone but your spouse, post-marriage. Some said you should never have sex with anyone but your spouse _ever_ , and even then only to get pregnant. She privately doubted anyone in those churches actually followed those rules.)

It had been a harsh transition, but at the end of it she’d been...well, alright, not _happy_ , still silently screaming in her head, still lying awake at night wanting badly for a storm to come down and tear off the roof and kill her, but _functioning,_ even feeling a kind of professional pride for how well she was dealing with the mistress’s infinite, amorphous demands, and then it had come.

The mistress had read through her papers again one morning and realized that she’d been re-sexed by master when he first bought her, thrown a fit and demanded that she be terminated and he buy a replacement.

(She hadn’t minded the re-sexment at all. She’d secretly wanted it as a child, before she’d been sold by a haggard, scowling-faced pair of foster parents, and now she’d gotten it, the best in the world. Joke’s on them.)

She hadn’t..she didn’t actually _remember_ the next few weeks, all things considered. She remembered a haze of fear, and intense relief, and deep joy, and she remembered running away in the middle of the night because the mistress learned that master had started re-sexing another slave--a baby slave--and wanted her dead too, and she remembered finding enclaves and hidden motel rooms and throwing away her beautiful, hard-earned silk collar, and she remembered finding the movement and begging for work.

Next to her, Chastity was snoring. She was the other re-sexed slave, and like her she’d wanted to keep going with it, and the movement had found ways to make it happen. She’d chosen the name because she hadn’t yet been touched--master only wanted to fuck re-sexed-into-female slaves--and she didn’t want to have sex, ever.

She supported her little sister’s decision. Everyone in the movement had respected it, either quietly or begrudgingly or derisively (“you’ll change your mind later, sweetie), but she had been allowed to make it.

She read CNN on her phone and blinked. _Stark kidnapped in Afghanistan, presumed dead until release of ransom, torture videos_.

Shit. A part of her felt immediate satisfaction-- _fuck_ Tony Stark, the mass murderer who flaunted his stupid fucking blood money by having so many slaves who, the movement had discovered, weren’t assigned _any_ ongoing tasks most days--and a part of her felt immediate terror. She checked her spam folder for where the real emails were filtered from others in the movement, and one was in from Taylor, the coordinator her and other diplomats referred back to for strategy meetings.

It read, once decoded, _We’re going to evacuate all Stark slaves tonight and loot the fucking company to the ground. Expect updates. No need to panic._

She took a deep breath and closed the email application on her phone and leaned back in her seat for a minute. She glanced out of the corner of her eye at Chastity. It had been an argued tactical risk to take her: Chastity stood out with her deep pink hair and her big green-glass glasses and her expose-all-skin-possible clothes. Chastity spoke loudly and partied hard when she had the chance.

But she’d argued that this was perfect for the mission. If the king of Wakanda accepted their offer and began to work with the movement, the most probable cover for their presence would be that they were friends of the prince, here to have fun in a country where they couldn’t get DUIs or be arrested for possession and sold into slavery. Chastity’s appearance would work wonderfully towards that goal.

They began to tilt down and Chastity woke up, yawning. She went to the bathroom on the plane to reapply her makeup and came out with eyelids glittering greens and blues and lipstick so dark purple it was almost black. She looked like an anglerfish mermaid. She loved her deeply.

They touched down not long after that and she walked off the plane, taking deep breaths. The prince and king were each standing just inside the airport, surrounded by the female guards they’d all been briefed on. The rest of the airport had been cleared.

She caught the eyes of one of them. They looked wary and focused, and she was struck for a second by how clearly they were _free_. She knew, intellectually, that of course there were countries with no slavery and no real history of slavery, but each time she encountered people for whom it wasn’t even a real threat--not even something they’d grown up having to be sheltered from--it still took her breath away.

“Hello, I am T’Chaka,” the king said, smiling at her. “Hello, I am T’Challa,” the prince said, and inclined his head slightly at her.

“Hello, your Highnesses,” she said politely. Next to her, Chastity was standing with one leg jutting sideways, staring at them coolly. “I am Nobody. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us and allowing us use of your plane.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” T’Chaka said. He didn’t flinch at the name, though one of the bodyguards looked troubled.

(She had no attachment to any real name. She’d tried to pick ones, but master had read the Song of Ice and Fire books far too early in life and decided to have all his slaves pick out a new name from a hat each morning, like the Unsullied, and so nobody had ever been allowed any use-name that they could recognize as theirs for more than a day.)

(The joke was on him. None of them ever called each other ‘tit slut’ or ‘fuckpig’ or ‘lipstick on a fleshlight’ or ‘stupid bitch’ as a name except when they _hated_ each other or were laughing in the basement about the sheer ridiculousness of it all, and so they were never names for even a day.)

(And this way, other not-yet-runaway slaves could accurately say they’d been talking to Nobody.)

She smiled. “And you too.”

“I’m Chastity,” Chastity interjected from next to her. “This place looks nice.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Chastity,” T’Chaka said without a hint of mockery or surprise.

Chastity said, her breath a puff of Pepsi lipgloss, “I’m not calling you ‘your Highness’ or anything. I did enough emotional dick-sucking to last a lifetime before.”

She stifled a laugh inside. “Chastity--”

“It is perfectly understandable for someone in your position to take a different view of things,” T’Chaka said magnanimously, and she understood immediately. Chastity’s opinion of him was completely incapable of threatening him at all, so he didn’t care.

But T’Challa looked uncomfortable enough--microexpression of disgust, sadness at the word ‘dick-sucking’--that she decided to test it out more later. She knew that sometimes unsavory things were required to get done what needed getting done, and securing Wakanda as a place for more refugees to go needed to be done.

(They could buy from arms dealers, steal from masters, and figure out strategies among themselves. But the two resources they really _could not_ procure by themselves were physical space and geo-political ‘official’ clout. This was why she was here.)

“Well,” T’Chaka said, “You must be tired from the journey. My son can show you to your rooms.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to begin negotiations tonight,” she said. “Me and my sister must be assured of our safety before we can go to an undisclosed location with you, you understand, your Highnesses.”

“Of course,” the king said, and seemed to her to be unlike any other king, except possibly the ones from a sanitized fairy tale. “Here is the document that states the two of you are political refugees and guests of my son.”

One of his aides handed them over. All of them looked well-fed, well-rested, not at all under threat or brainwashed. She always checked these things over.

“Your son,” she repeated, looking them over.

“My son has many friends,” T’Chaka said with perfect innocence. “He cannot be blamed if some strange, unjust governments want to persecute his friends and he wishes to shield them from, ah, kangaroo courts.”

She smiled. There wouldn’t even be a trial if she and Chastity were caught, just a prolonged torture before a grisly execution. “Of course. Well, thank you, your Highnesses, I’m so grateful for the opportunity to work with you. It is an honor.”

“The honor is mine,” T’Challa said from where he was standing. He loomed less than the vast majority of free men, stood back and respected her space. He didn’t leer at Chastity; his eyes didn’t even linger. “It is my duty as a prince to be both a moral as well as a political and spiritual leader. When I become king, I must be worthy of it.”

She tilted her head and flashed him a smile. If she _did_ end up having to do things that involved zippers coming down to secure the deal, she’d be very disappointed in him. He had such potential.

(The official and strictly enforced policy was that both using sex and refusing to use sex was allowed, and coercing one or the other tactic was not.)

“Well then, I believe we are tired, your Highnesses,” she said.

“Then let me show you to your apartments,” T’Challa said. “They are not in the main palace, for security reasons…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from one of Jenny Holzer's "Inflammatory Essays", here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/109320100031


	126. and I said give me the fucking fruit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for rape fantasies and discussions of guilt.

Foggy was exhausted.

He didn’t want to be, but he was, and it wore at him like water on stone. Ever since that drunken night with Marci, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it.

It was worse than when he’d first started getting insomnia in a lot of ways; with that, the solutions had been things that he could do without feeling guilty, and most of them worked together well enough to actually solve the problem. It hadn’t been anyone’s fault and he didn’t have to have an existential crisis over it.

But with this, Foggy felt awful every time he thought about it, sick guilt curdling in his stomach, lumpy and rotting and squirming inside of him like a colony of maggots wriggling their way into his intestines. He couldn’t even try to think through how to solve the problem, because the only answer was even more horrible than the problem itself.

He was tired of taking care of Matt.

It was awful, but it was true. He felt exhausted by constantly trying to reassure Matt, reminding him every day that he was doing a good job and that he could pick whatever he wanted when it was his turn on Sunday TV nights and that he could bake what he liked and sleep when he wanted and wake up Foggy if he needed the chain unlocked and go out when he wanted to and every other tiny little piece of soothing Matt before he could even get upset. He was tired of shoving down the little flinch of horror whenever he saw Matt happily kneeling and doing homework or Matt caressing his collar, eyes shut and a smile teasing the edges of his mouth. He was tired of feeling like he was juggling those expensive Russian painted eggshells whenever he talked to Matt.

But how could he be tired of that? How could it be so much _work_? Foggy felt like he was touching a hot stove even trying to understand it, but it was undeniable.

Things came to a head one day in therapy. Miriam had just been asking him how he felt lately, and like an over-filled water balloon, it exploded messily.

“I feel tired all the time because I keep trying to be nice to Matt and it’s _so much work_ ,” Foggy blurted out. “And I know that’s, like, the most selfish thing I’ve ever said or thought but I don’t, I can’t, how do I make it so it’s not that tiring?”

Miriam blinked, her brown eyes calm. “Could you elaborate on what you mean?”

“I--” Foggy took a deep breath, and felt ridiculous. “No, I--it’s nothing, sorry.” He stared down at the carpet. It was a pattern of dark greens, some grayer or bluer or browner than others, most of them shaped like puzzle pieces.

“Foggy,” she said gently, “If it’s causing you distress, it’s significant enough to talk about. My office is again a place of confidentiality. I won’t judge you for how you feel.”

“I know,” Foggy muttered, though he was wondering more and more often if Miriam _did_ judge him and just hid it from him. He wasn’t sure it was possible to listen to someone angst and carry on like he did and _not_ , in your heart of hearts, think to yourself _shut the fuck up already_ , despite the fact that he’d never thought that to or about Matt or anyone else who’d ever spilled a secret to him. “I just--it’s so selfish. It really is. But. Is there a way to make caring about--caring for, I guess--someone less…” Foggy didn’t want to say _tiring_ now that he wasn’t blurting it all out as one word, it wasn’t like Matt needed to be carried everywhere or something, but everything else sounded even more dickish. “Less tiring?”

Miriam made a soft noise of understanding. “Ah, I see what you mean. Yes, Foggy, but let me address this just quickly--it’s not selfish to feel that way. If something is too much work for you, it’s too much work, and it’s not wrong to want to do a more reasonable amount.”

Foggy snorted without meaning to. _Reasonable._ As if any of this fucking situation was in any way reasonable. “Why should it be--? It’s not ‘reasonable’ that Matt, that he…” Foggy forced out the words. “That he’s been hurt so much. Why should I only do a ‘reasonable’ amount of _not being a dick to him_?”

“Can you define for me what you’re meaning by ‘not being a dick to him’?” Miriam asked, sitting back. She had a little gold ball in her nose; it reflected off her dark skin like a Christmas ornament at midnight.

Foggy sighed. “Well, like--what I mean is stuff like when it’s his turn to pick something on TV, I always make sure to tell him that he can pick whatever he wants, even if it’s not something I like, and I can’t just tell him once, it has to be more than once, and when he’s picking--just about anything, I guess--I do that then too, and whenever there’s a movie or something I look up before if there’s anything with slaves in it and ask him if it would bug him, and if I wake up and he’s awake I try to talk to him and make him feel better, and when he had--it was like three weeks where he was just _gone_ , just completely absent, like he was there physically,” Foggy hastily explained.

“But he wasn’t..it was like having a ghost in the room. It was like when Candace had that really bad depression a while back and she couldn’t...she didn’t even..she _did_ things, kinda, but it was like a part of her just wasn’t there, like she’d had her liver ripped out or something. It reminded me of that,” Foggy said, and realized that his voice was choking up, cracking like concrete in a disaster-porn movie. “I kept trying to make him come back, to apologize, to do anything, but he just wasn’t...it wasn’t until all of a sudden one day he asked me if he could bake these rolls for Claire--one of our neighbors, she’s nice--and then he was normal again. Normal for Matt, I mean.”

Foggy took a deep breath. “And I try to stay aware of things, like I read up on slavery news and stuff, and I keep researching these laws about slaves and they’re so fucking ridiculous, like did you know that if you’ve _fostered_ \--not even _adopted_ \--

Miriam nodded. “So what I’m hearing is that you’re doing what feels to you like too much emotional labor on Matt’s behalf.”

Foggy frowned. “Yeah, but I can’t just not do it, I mean-- _can_ I? But no, I can’t just treat him like a normal person, but--” He fell silent. He desperately wanted an excuse to just stop doing it, all of these little things that piled up and dug into his back as he lugged around the weight.

“No, you’ve explained your reasoning for that and I agree,” Miriam said peaceably. “But there is a way to make yourself less exhausted: you can shift the emotional labor onto Matt.”

Foggy blinked. “Huh?”

“For example, you mention reassuring him over and over again,” Miriam said. “What do you think would happen if you let him reassure himself?

Foggy’s brain blanked for a second, and then he said, slowly, “Uh, he’d--he might be, I dunno, he might get all anxious again.”

“And what do you think might happen if, say, you let him resolve his own emotions?”

Foggy stared at her. Then he said, slowly and coolly, “I’m not going to stop caring about Matt’s feelings.”

“Okay,” she said gently. “That’s reasonable.”

Foggy sighed and turned to stare at the walls. Quiet dark blue that sank down into robin’s-egg by the bottom of the walls.

“I hate this,” he said, his voice coming out small and frustrated and hurt.

“That’s normal to feel,” Miriam said. “I can offer another perspective if you want to hear it.”

“Sure,” Foggy said.

“If you keep doing this much work--if you keep exhausting yourself--you won’t be able to offer any reassurance or care about Matt at all, eventually,” she said gently. “Emotional labor is like any other form of work: you can burn out on it. And the effects can be much more damaging than preventative self-care.”

Foggy sighed and leaned back. “I..I can think about it.”

“Okay,” she said. “And you mentioned reading up on legalities of slavery?”

“Yeah,” he said, “And it’s just, it’s all so fucked up--did you know that you can only get charged with ‘disturbing the peace’ and ‘causing mass distress’ if you actually _kill a slave in public?_ And that they have these ‘body farms’ where they kill slaves in all these fucked-up ways for forensic studies, and in the Tampa Market it’s even worse…” Foggy trailed off at her expression. It was the one she got when she was going to tell him something important.

“Can you describe to me how that makes you feel?” Miriam asked.

Foggy frowned and thought about it. “I--you know that thing where if there’s a car accident, like a deer’s torn up on the side of a road or something? I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a deer get hit, but that sort of thing, um--you know how people turn to stare at it, even though it grosses them out?”

“Mmm, yes,” she said.

“That. Is, uh, how I feel, I guess. I keep reading all this stuff and it’s…” Foggy wasn’t sure that she understood; her face was so calm and neutral and composed. It was unsettling. People shouldn’t be calm about stuff like the body farms.

“So what I’m hearing is that reading these things is very upsetting to you, but you feel compelled to keep doing so,” Miriam said.

Foggy nodded.

“Well, my recommendation for next week is that you try not to read it at all,” she suggested. “There are apps, I understand, that allow you to block sites or specific webpages from displaying on your computer, which you can use if you find yourself re-reading them.”

Foggy couldn’t help but scoff. “How is that--it’s just hatereading, I only mentioned it because, I…” _because I do it for Matt_ , he didn’t say. _Because it’s not fair that I get to be blissfully ignorant of how bad the world really is._ “Because I do it so that Matt doesn’t have to explain all this stuff to me.”

“Okay,” she said, “But exposing yourself to things that make you feel distressed--hatereading, to use your word--can be very psychologically damaging. It can even be a form of self-harm,” she added, and Foggy felt his disbelief spread over his face. No, he didn’t--he wasn’t--he was _fine_.

“Well, okay, I can try to cut down on it,” he grudgingly agreed.

 

 

\--

 

Foggy was at therapy, and Matt was fingering himself on the floor next to his bed.

He had set everything else up first: he had drunk water, gone to the bathroom, and showered, and he had double-checked his memory for asking if he was allowed near Foggy's bed, and he had stripped and lain down a towel, fetched extra conditioner (one with cucumber-melon scent, Foggy had bought it once by mistake), and taken the long handle of the loofah and placed it next to him.

He had his legs up to his chest, relishing in his muscle tone, one hand rubbing and scissoring and stretching, and sank into the fantasy.

_Foggy is above him, talking softly. "You're so good," Foggy says, touching him gently but firmly. "So good," Foggy adds, and kisses him. Matt closes his eyes and relaxes into the kiss._

_Foggy's washed his hands and slicks up his fingers, pressing two into Matt, sure that he can take it. Matt lies still and relaxed; all he has to do is be calm. All he has to do is lie there and not struggle, not fight back. All he has to do is be a warm, unresisting body and then after it'll be so good, strawberries and tea and being held and kissed in his master's bed, Egyptian cotton against his skin--_

Matt yanked back from that part. No, no, no. Don't get greedy. Foggy couldn't afford it. Don't be stupid.

He sank back down, _He just has to be good and all Foggy wants is for him to take it._

_Foggy fingers him open and leans down, kisses his collar. Matt's face is blank; he doesn't have to smile or arch or gasp, he doesn't have to moan that he likes it. Nobody is making him lie this time. All he has to do is take it._

_Foggy smells clean and warm, and he squeezes Matt's hand as he presses in, and Matt exhales to make it easier. He knows this is difficult, he knows how much Matt doesn't like it. Matt doesn't have to like it. He's allowed that privilege, and it makes him smile just at the corners of his eyes. Foggy kisses him and then thrusts as he wants to, back and forth, and when Matt's tired of it he's allowed to milk him, squeeze in rhythm, contract his muscles and listen to his lovely, kind owner gasp._

_He squeezes and Foggy swears and comes--comes into a **condom** , a ribbed condom, that's why Matt can feel ridges inside of him, so Matt doesn't have to feel sticky and queasy, ties it off and throws it out and presses more kisses to Matt's thighs, reaches down and says, "You were good, so good, I'm so happy you're mine, here, let's start with your reward, come on and come for me and then you can come into my bed, we can watch Legally Blonde again and I bought strawberries and steaks for dinner, good Matt, such a beautiful perfect Matt," and Matt's whining now, toes curling, moaning for real now that he likes it, Foggy's hand touching him and it doesn't feel wrong because it's not his hand, it's Foggy's, it's Foggy's, Foggy is allowed to touch him because Matt is all his, and Matt is whispering **Foggy Foggy Foggy** like a siren, like the seventh way to say master, like it's precious, like he used to pray, Matt is coming and Matt--_

Matt realized with a horrible jolt of adrenaline and light-headed panic that Foggy was in the bedroom, standing too, back early from therapy, and Matt had tear tracks down his face and the loofah handle still inside him and his hand around his softening cock.

 

 

\--

 

Foggy couldn't stop staring for a long three seconds.

He'd come back early because he'd decided on a plan of action and then he'd felt full of it like a waterfall, and then he'd heard quiet moaning and--

And he was kidding himself if he thought that he'd thought the moans were of pain. Matt's back was arched, his chest flushed, his eyes wide and beautiful and almost black with pupil, and his mouth-- his _mouth_ \--

Foggy realized sharply that no wonder he'd originally mistaken Matt for consenting, back when he'd been so stupid and selfish and short-sighted. That smile had looked real, right up until he'd seen this one.

Matt's face had crumpled into embarrassed fear, and Foggy took a step back. "Uh," he said. "Um. I'm not mad."

Matt nodded, eyes wide. Foggy saw the--was that the bath loofah? That wasn't safe. He realized Matt was still full and his hand around his cock, and he was splattered in come, and he was _beautiful_ , not like a Renaissance painting like he sometimes appeared to be, like a beautiful person who was naked and lying in sunlight.

Foggy blinked again, shook his head, and said, "Um, I'm just gonna go in the kitchen and, uh, I'll make us some tea. While you get less naked. Um," and fled.

\--

Matt forced himself to breathe as he cleaned himself up quickly and efficiently. He hadn't done anything wrong. He was allowed to masturbate and come without Foggy there or without asking permission beforehand. He knew he was. He hadn't done anything wrong.

But when Foggy had been there--what he'd seen--

Matt didn't care about being naked anymore. He'd had his modesty stripped away with the kind of brutal efficiency used to peel carrots; he was used to being exposed and vulnerable and seen by others for what he really was. _It comes with the job,_ Summer had joked once, a smile on her mouth and absent from her eyes.

But when _Foggy_ had been standing there, Matt had felt just as naked as when he'd first started being trained out of it, when Summer had walked him around the gala wearing nothing but a dust of biodegradable gold glitter in strategic places, or--even worse--when he'd woken up after surgery and had to be helped to the bathroom, apologizing the entire time.

It felt uncomfortably like being skinned.

But this time it hadn't been something to endure, exactly. A part of Matt wondered if it would be nice to be naked more often around Foggy--he didn't want to pose Matt in ugly or unflattering positions, photograph him drinking piss or point out his tiny hidden scars. Foggy wouldn't do that, Matt was sure. Foggy might gently touch his skin if he was naked, hold him close if Matt made up some pretext to cuddling, place his warm hands on his spine.

Matt shivered and finished redressing, washed the loofah's handle and went into the kitchen to boil water to pour over it to sterilize it. He cleaned it, set it to dry apart from the other dishes, and knelt down on the floor, quietly waiting.

Foggy cleared his throat and handed him a mug of tea--herbal mint, decaffeinated, two spoonfuls of brown sugar, precisely the way Matt liked it.

Stupidly, tears welled up a little in his eyes. Foggy _remembered_ how and which teas Matt drank, Foggy didn't just grab one at random or the cheapest one off the shelf. Foggy didn't carelessly hand him a shitty black coffee and expect him to like it.

Matt shoved his idiotic feelings away and focused.

"Okay," Foggy said, stirring his own black tea--an 'Indian' blend, with orange peel and spices. "So, me and Miriam have been talking--well, okay, she helped me figure out a couple of things. And, um, this is going to sound horrible, but I sort of--I feel like I'm, uh, taking too much care to factor in your reactions to everything I do, and--what?"

And he stopped talking because Matt started helplessly giggling.

"Matt, are you okay? What--"

"You--" Matt started to laugh again, higher-pitched, more like a scream, "You think you're, you're, _you_ are doing too much for me, I--"

He couldn't stop, and it rose to hysterical in the space of a second, Matt almost screaming with laughter, tears pouring down his face, hating himself but being overcome with the ridiculousness of it all. Of _course_ Foggy had started to be a better owner, of _course_ Foggy thought that he was doing too much, caring about Matt at all was doing too much, but--

Right after the tea, and right after Matt had been struck by Foggy's truly kind-hearted nature, it was just too ironic. Matt couldn't stop laughing until he couldn't breathe, and then he switched over to the deep breathing techniques that had been choked into him until they were pure reflex.

"I'm sorry," Matt said, putting the mug to the side, kneeling so his face touched the floor, "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry Foggy, please punish me, I'm sorry--"

"Hey, no, stop," and Matt stopped.

"I--Matt, are you okay?"

Matt shoved down another giggle. This might be the last time he wasn't punished for his countless transgressions. This might be the last time Foggy ever asked him that and wanted stupidly painful _honesty_

(as if Foggy knew anything about honesty, or the truth, or how the world really was, or what it was to put someone else before you, to factor in their feelings to every decision you made)

And Matt was quite done being so ruined and soft and stupid.

"Yes, Foggy," he said.

"Okay." An audible gulp. "Okay. Um. So what we talked about--what I figured out--is that, okay, I'm not going to be a dick to you, alright? I'm not going to hurt you, and I will still, uh, be happy to make you feel better and be nice to you, especially when you're hurt. But it's all the preventative stuff that gets to me, especially reminding you all the time that you can disagree with me and make your own decisions. And she pointed out that, uh, if I always do that for you then you won't learn to just take me at my word and do it for yourself. So. That's going to stop, and I'm going to also try to take you at word too."

Matt blinked. He didn't understand.

"Does that make sense to you?"

_No._ But Matt knew better than to tell an owner _that_ , so instead he tested the tentative hypothesis. "Yes, Foggy."

And he _took him at his word_ and dropped the subject.

\--

A week later, as Matt woke up, he realized with a heart-pounding panic that he couldn't seem to stop disagreeing with Foggy.

It didn't matter how often he could happily just pick what Foggy clearly wanted to watch or agree with him convincingly and cook for Foggy's tastebuds; it was as if now that Matt had gotten into the habit of disagreeing with Foggy when prompted he couldn't stop anymore, not even in his own head.

"It's so gross out," Foggy complained about the rain, and a vicious part of Matt snarled that it was beautiful and perfect.

"Marci is _sooo_ pretty," Foggy tipsily, gaily proclaimed as he fell into bed after a party at her apartment. Matt bit back a cold comment about her being the sort of beautiful that a pumpkin was: sure, nice for a week, but soon she'd be ugly and rotting.

"Strawberry cream cheese is _clearly_ the best cream cheese," Foggy said, picking it out at the grocery store. _Flavored cream cheeses are disgusting unless they're chive and onion or made into frosting,_ an awful part of Matt muttered, disgusted.

Matt realized with heart-wrenching terror that these thoughts wouldn't go away on their own. He needed help.

He needed to be _really_ punished and then _really_ rewarded for taking it so well.

He needed to whip himself with a belt.

 

 

\--

 

Bee showed up at Emilia's house at four in the morning.

They hadn't wanted to go during the day, and they hadn't wanted to be seen, and they knew the way, and darkness wasn't scary and neither was walking at night.

(It baffled them that anyone was seriously frightened of either of those things. Free people were such fucking wimps.)

And they'd laid awake more than one night in a row, sleeping for twenty minutes at a time before jolting awake in terror, a deep sickness inside of them. They couldn't stop eating, mashing dining hall pasta into mush with sink water to make it go down easier, gagging at the texture. They scratched their nail beds open and hid under the bed and couldn't sleep, and they'd cracked and gone to Emilia.

She had answered the door with a quiet, furtive look on her face, and relaxed when she saw it was Bee, letting her in and then locking the door.

_Hello,_ Emilia signed. _What do you need?_

Bee stared, distracted. They sat on the floor, Anthea in their lap, and signed back. _Why are **you** signing? You can talk out loud._

_Yes, but I was taught that it's polite, when in a private conversation, to use the language that both parties can talk in. But I can talk out loud if that's easier._

Bee blinked and shook their head. Emilia's face was younger, somehow, than before. She looked calmer.

Bee squeezed Anthea for courage, and then, _I'm worried that I'm becoming a bad person._

_Why do you think so?_ Emilia's signing was smooth, fluid, with a slave accent.

(Bee was of the firm opinion that all languages had a slave accent. But in ASL and other signed languages, where the body language was not just tonal but grammatical, it was the most obvious to spot. The slumped shoulders and too-straight back, the eyes pointed at the ground and not at the other person's eyes, the quiet soft submissiveness in the entire workup of sinew and muscle and ligament.)

(One of the essays in the book had talked about slave accents, slave dialects, how slavery was built into language and how it could be taken out.)

_The other day, I screamed at someone. I don't feel bad about that, she was a fucking cunt, she deserved it, and then I felt like...I felt like I was dying, it was so bad. Like when you first get a blindfold put on you and you're terrified?_

_A panic attack?_

The words were new to Bee, but they made sense. _Yes, that. Um. And then a friend of mine--he was just trying to help me breathe, but he was pushing on my diaphragm like this, and then I hit him. I didn't just want to make him stop touching me, I wanted to hurt him. It felt like--like all of the fire that was inside of me because of that horrible fucking cunt was focused on him, even just for a minute, and I can't stop feeling like the worst person in the world because of it._

Emilia's eyes were calm and understanding. She stood up and beckoned Bee after her into the kitchen, where she took down a bag of oreos and took out a few. Then she separated them into cookie and cream and scraped the creams all together on a plate.

_Here,_ she offered.

Bee took it. They knew what it meant when another slave offered you their own food. Not that Emilia was a slave anymore, she was free, but. It was sort of the same thing with how Bee wasn't a slave anymore but they _were_ , they hadn't been magically replaced with a free person the second the board had ruled that they were a Real Person.

They ate the soft cream and then took the canned apple juice Emilia offered next and sat down in the chair at the table.

_You're not the worst person in the world,_ Emilia signed as soon as she put her own can down. _I can tell you that right now. I'm not going to say lashing out during a panic attack is a good thing, but it's not the same as deliberately intending to hurt someone, and certainly it's not something that you deserve to feel this guilty about._

_How do you know how I feel?_

_You look like you haven't slept as well as since I've known you, your nailbeds are crusted with blood, and you also haven't showered._

Bee blinked. They hadn't showered? But they usually washed every day, sometimes twice or three or four times. Not like they cared if the privileged spoiled idiot free people in their hall missed the hot water.

_Also, you just wolfed down that food, and while you usually eat about as fast as most slaves eat, you don't normally devour it all in one long gulp._

Bee turned their head to the side a little in shame. Motion drew their eyes back.

_Don't worry. A free person would just think you're having a hard class._

Bee snorted. No, classes weren't hard. They'd never been half as hard as other things they had to do, not since--

Not since they'd apparently not been learning the hard stuff. They stared at the apple juice can, looking at the ingredients list. Some of the names were gibberish.

They'd always taken it for granted that they didn't know that sort of thing, but ever since they'd had that conversation with Matt where he'd tried to explain that Foggy was like a koala it had struck them _hard_ that they were...well, not stupid, they knew they weren't stupid, nobody could be stupid and manage to get themselves free without being a cinderella or something similar, but _ignorant_ , completely unknowing of..well, they didn't know how much they didn't know, and that made them burn with shame, too much to even bother to look it up.

_Bee?_ And Emilia was fingerspelling it, not using the name-sign that not-Amanda--wait, Carlisle, her name was Carlisle now, she'd renamed herself--that Carlisle had given her, _bear_ with a b-handshape. _Bee?_

_Yes, sorry. I feel stupid sometimes,_ Bee suddenly confessed. _Matt once mentioned 'koalas'_ and here they fingerspelled it, not sure what the sign was, and paused to watch Emilia demonstrate, _and then he was surprised that I didn't know what they were, and he--sometimes it's like he's so smart, but he's so...he expects that everywhere was like his fancy fucking trainer, and he doesn't realize that I don't know things, like what 'aspertame' is or 'potassium sorbate' or 'potassium', actually, is, or what continents there are or what 'APR financing' is or how to do taxes or why people get appendicitis or anything and I'm so fucking stupid and I'm sorry, I'm sorry,_ and Bee's hands felt unable to stop apologizing.

Emilia waved her hands loudly in Bee's face. _Hey, no. You're not stupid, okay? Say it with me if you want. I'm not stupid._

Bee felt stupider, but followed along. _I'm not stupid._

_Calling myself stupid is something that my owners wanted me to do to make them feel smarter. Self-loathing is a tool of slavery._

Bee signed along, blinking and feeling inexpressibly better. _Calling myself stupid is something that my owners wanted me to do to make them feel smarter. Self-loathing is a tool of slavery._

Emilia nodded. _And for earlier--did you hit Matt as well?_

_Yeah, the person I hit was Matt,_ Bee confessed miserably. They waited for judgement.

_Did you hurt him?_

_Not really. He isn't afraid of me. But he's a fucking idiot when it comes to what to be scared of. It's like he doesn't have any common sense to be scared of his owner, or--well, I guess to not always be scared of him_ , Bee tried to explain. _It's not really comforting._

_So what you're feeling guilty about is meaning to hurt him, not succeeding._

_Yeah._ Bee drank the apple juice, processed the sensation of cold liquid in their mouth. Sometimes things burned their throat, like vinegar or grain alcohol, back when the cunt twins had wanted more entertainment.

(Once he had put pop-rocks in their mouth and fucked their face. He had screamed when several ended up in his--whatever the slit where piss and come came out was called, Bee knew it started with a 'u'.)

Emilia nodded. _A lot of ex-slaves,_ and the sign for that was completely different than the technical one, this one could be transliterated as 'people who have escaped and become more beautiful and free and whole', _A lot of us have trouble with getting in touch with our anger. But some of us have the opposite problem where we have too much anger and we feel it all and it's hard to control._

Bee's mouth twisted in rhythm with their guts.

_But there are ways to deal with this, and it's entirely possible for you to get better at handling it. One of the ways is to balance anger with getting in touch with your other emotions._

Bee snorted. _What, should I be happy?_

_No, no, don't depend on happiness,_ Emilia snorted herself, leaning back. _Happiness is a particularly finickity feral cat. You can make a space for it and invite it in, but it'll come and go as it pleases. One of the happiest days of my life I spent naked, chained to a bed, and watching Jerry Springer and drinking lukewarm cokes because master and mistress--my owners, I mean, my rapists--put them out and locked me in the bedroom and the only thing I understood was Jerry Springer's show._

Bee took another sip. _But you were a slave then._

_So I was. But I was happy sometimes._

Bee...couldn't deal with it. They hugged their bear tight to them, stroking soft, soft fur.

_It doesn't make it right, what they did to me. It doesn't mean it wasn't rape,_ Emilia signed emphatically, eyes burning. They had less of the slave accent on now. _It means I was human. Humans can adapt to all kinds of situations, including unbearable ones._

Bee nodded and squeezed Anthea.

_But I mean emotions like laughter, joy. Contentment. Even sadness and grief and despair, sometimes. If you need to cry or feel like the world is small and circular and doesn't make sense, then that's what you need to feel. And we don't have time when we're slaves to feel our emotions and deal with them, so they end up stuffed into corners of our bones, giving us muscle aches and sinus infections and bad dreams. Do things that make you feel,_ Emilia suggested.

Bee bit their lip and nodded.

_Now I can make you something else to eat if you want, or offer up a bed. I have all kinds of spaces in the house right now if you need to stay overnight, or I can walk you back._

Bee snorted. _It's not difficult to get back, you don't live that far._

_It's not actually safe to walk back in the dark, alone,_ Emilia signed.

Bee's brow furrowed, confused.

_It..okay, that's a separate conversation about how our ability to sense danger gets turned up and ground down,_ Emilia conceded, and finished her can of apple juice and stood up.

_Recycle it, please,_ Emilia asked gently as Bee sucked down the rest of the can and held it up questioningly. _Gotta save the planet for us to inherit._  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from "Persephone Lied", here: http://spuffyduds.livejournal.com/38351.html


	127. that they recognize you as something green, something fresh and still growing, even if sometimes you are growing sideways

Matt shook as he went to buy the whip.

He’d wrapped a lighter scarf around his collar, and a hoodie zipped up close to his neck, and he left training at Fogwell’s one night early to buy it, and he still felt chilled.

As he walked into a little corner-place for it--no need to spend unnecessary money, whips were whips regardless of how decorated their handles were or whether they were made of imported or domestic leather--Matt forced himself to take a deep breath and clear his throat as if he were free.

“Hello?” He called out softly.

“Oh, hi, sir,” the boy behind the counter said, walking over. The little ring on his collar made a noise against the leather of it; Matt blinked and swayed backwards. Being called ‘sir’ by a free person was always disorienting, but by another slave it was--

Matt shoved away the emotions. “I need to buy a whip,” he said. “Whichever is sized for adult slaves and cheap.”

“Of course,” the boy said, and paused. “Uh, should I be leading you, or just telling you where it is, or--? Sir?”

“Either is fine,” Matt said, caught off-guard. Most people didn’t ask--if they saw him for what he was, they just didn’t touch him, and if they thought he was free they picked one without a second thought.

“Okay,” the boy said, and awkwardly wrapped a hand around Matt’s elbow and reverse-led him, Matt quickly compensating. The bin of whips wasn’t far, and Matt curled his fingers around one, vaguely aware that he was shaking, just barely perceptible.

He started to feel vaguely numb and cold. “This one,” he said, hearing himself distantly and slowly, his voice sounding wrong.

As he was walked over to the counter and brought out the wallet to pay, the boy leaned over the counter. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “That’s not right, that your owner’s making you buy it yourself.”

Matt...felt too flat to react, as it turned out. “Did the scarf slip?”

“No, no, it’s just,” the boy said, bagging it. “It’s just wrong. He shouldn’t make you buy it.”

Matt felt too strangely distant to correct him. And, he thought to himself as he walked back home, it was _true_ in an awful way. Foggy really _was_ making him buy it himself; if he’d just-- _done his job_ and made sure Matt didn’t have these awful thoughts, then none of this would be necessary.

Matt shivered and put the bag in his coat, and when he took it off inside the bathroom, he kept the whip hidden from Foggy the rest of the night. He wasn’t supposed to upset his owner.

\--

Foggy wasn’t sure what was up with Matt.

He was trying to not overanalyze it, actually. He knew that he was supposed to let Matt handle himself more often, and let him try to ask for help when he needed it, and take him at his word, and stop treating him like he was so fragile. And Foggy knew that for the most part, it seemed to be be working, in that Matt was visibly much less anxious and things were just _easier_.

But sometimes Matt got this look on his face, like...like Candace, when she’d started to come out of her own sticky black hole of misery, and realized what had happened. And it scared Foggy deeply; he wanted to be prepared for the next crisis, the next awful day, but he couldn’t be tense all the time.

So he took a deep breath and climbed into Marci’s cab. She’d insisted he ride with her, and she pay, and Foggy wasn’t one to turn down free food. They were having brunch together--something about her wanting to get a second opinion on a new place that had opened up near her cousin’s apartment--and he made himself stop thinking about Matt the entire time, or tried.

It wasn’t so difficult with Marci. Marci demanded his full attention and frankly didn’t seem to care if Foggy was a good person or nice or not; she whooped with laughter at his more mean jokes and grinned whenever she managed to get him riled up enough to go for the throat in an argument. It was freeing, in a way. He knew that if he tried to be too accommodating of her feelings, she’d be insulted that he even thought she had them.

It was incredibly freeing, sitting with Marci at a table, eating eggs and pancakes and bacon and ham, drinking mimosas and listening to her latest accounting of the stupidity of most of their class. Foggy ended up snorting out half of a screwdriver out of his nose when she got around to describing one of the many male classmates who talked too much as ‘the kind of guy who would fuck a grapefruit, but only if he felt it was girly enough’.

Marci eventually went on to a more serious topic, which was: does Foggy ever want to be her partner in their own firm?

Foggy stared at her.

“Well, I’ve been thinking about it,” she explained. “Half my family are lawyers, and they can get me jobs. But they’ve been getting me things my entire life, and I’m not convinced that that’s what I want to do, something that someone else decided would be nice to offer me. You’re good, you’re smart and good at being nice to idiots, and you’ve got your Matt, and you’ve still sort-of got that other girl--what was her name?”

“Bee’s not a girl,” Foggy said firmly. “And I don’t know what they want to do.”

“They’re nonessential anyway,” Marci said with a shrug. “Anyway, here’s what I’m thinking: we get the paid internships, or whatnot, and we get the experience, however much we feel is good, and then we make our own law firm and go from there.”

Foggy squinted at her. “Why?”

“I’ve always wanted to make partner as soon as I could,” Marci explained. “But especially with the recent economic instability...it’s going to take too fucking long to get there if I start at the bottom. For what I want--I have to create my own opportunities. So that’s what I’m going to do.”

“And why me and Matt?”

“You don’t make me want to beat you to death with a paperweight, you don’t hit on me even when you’re good and smashed, my parents will never pressure me to marry you to solidify the company, you’re actually surprisingly competent, given most nice people are morons, and overall I’ve never felt like you were dead weight in my life.” Marci said, ticking off on her fingers. “As for Matt? Because as much as I don’t like him, he’s good at it. And we don’t even have to pay him.”

Foggy’s vein flooded with icewater. “The fuck? Yes, we do,” he said irritably, “He’s a _person_ \--”

“Yeah, obviously,” Marci said with an eyeroll. Her mascara looked like it cost more than the cab fare. “But it’s not legal for a company to pay a slave. Don’t you remember the Rosenbach case?”

Foggy shook his head.

“The one where that big abolitionist nonprofit got in serious shit for paying a whole bunch of slaves to do work for them, and then ended up getting enslaved for tax fraud?”

“No,” Foggy said. “Never heard of it.”

“Really,” she said, peering at his face. “We...we’re the same age, you would have been nine. You don’t remember?”

“I don’t think my parents let me hear about stuff like that,” Foggy said uncomfortably. “They weren’t big on us watching the news.”

Marci rolled her eyes. “Neither were mine, but they at least let me know the groundbreaking legal cases that were relevant for a future lawyer,” she said.

Foggy looked away. That was a knot he didn’t feel like untangling.

“Let’s talk about it again a different time,” he said diplomatically. “But I think I could work with you without wanting to kill you too.”

\--

Matt had only gotten into two lashes that actually cut skin when Foggy got home.

He’d shook the entire time, unwrapping the whip from the plastic bag and taking off his shirt, shutting the blinds and making himself start, but once he’d gotten going, it had been oddly...right. Not good, not anything less than terrifying, but Matt had been thinking bad thoughts and doing bad things and being so, so unworthy of himself, of his training, of his owner, of everyone that believed in him, and being punished for that was how things were supposed to be, how things were supposed to go. It felt like things were making sense again.

His mind floated away like it usually did, leaving just behind a lump of meat and fat that he didn’t have to care about, not while being whipped, and Matt relaxed _into_ the pain, into the steady rhythm, into the smell of blood. He felt strangely pillowed, cushioned, held aloft. He wondered if he’d still feel like that when he was done. He wondered if he was getting blood on the hallway floor or walls. He hoped not.

And then Foggy got home and things went very wrong very fast.

Matt wasn’t sure what Foggy was actually saying, or what he was saying back, except that they were apologies and he couldn’t format them to fit Foggy, so instead they were him bending over and the blood running all over his back and saying things he wasn’t sure of, and then when he snapped back into himself he realized Foggy had asked him to be quiet for a minute and was _crying_.

\--

Foggy couldn’t keep it together.

He wished he could, but he just fucking couldn’t. Matt was repeating the same stupid horrible things about how he was sorry master sorry so sorry and he had somehow, somewhere _bought a whip_ and _whipped himself_ and Foggy just couldn’t deal with it. It was wrong and horrible, but he’d told Matt to just stop talking and walked into the bathroom and shut the door to cry in peace for a few minutes.

When he could breathe again for a bit, he washed his face and opened up the door to see Matt sitting up quietly, hands in his lap and head bent.

“I’m so sorry, Foggy,” Matt said quietly. “I shouldn’t have done this. This was….stupid and selfish and cruel, and I’m sorry for upsetting you and hurting myself.”

Foggy stopped short. This wasn’t...Matt apologized a _lot_ , Matt said sorry for all kinds of things, but this somehow felt _real_ , felt genuine in a way that it never had before.

“Yeah?” he said, sitting down as well.

 

“I’m sorry,” Matt said. “I...I thought that this was what I needed, but I should have remembered that you really don’t like me being in pain, and I should have handled it differently.”

Foggy was caught off-guard. He hadn’t….Miriam was right. Treating Matt like he could handle himself was _working_. Foggy hadn’t had to sit down with him for an hour and pet his hair. He’d pulled himself together.

“What’s ‘it’?” he asked instead.

Matt brought up his knees to his chest, and lay his head on his arms. “I keep thinking bad thoughts,” he said quietly, half-whispering like he was terrified. “I can’t make them stop. I can’t, and I thought that if I did this, then it would...that I had to--I have to make them stop, Foggy, I can’t deal with this, it’s so dangerous.”

Foggy reached out. “Whatever you’re thinking, if it’s--’disobedient’--then it’s safe to think it around me,” he said gently. “It’s fine--”

“It’s _not_ fucking fine!” Matt snapped, head going up. “It’s not fine! I shouldn’t be thinking this way! All I’ve done since you got me was be ruined and ground down into fucking nothing because of you and your stupid fucking lack of rules, and if you had just done your _job_ and been my _owner_ properly, then we wouldn’t be in this position where all I am is a fuckup who’s probably not even worth a hundred dollars!”

Foggy stared. Matt had tears in his eyes. He gulped around a visible lump in his throat.

“See?” Matt whispered. “I shouldn’t even be thinking that, much less say it.”

Foggy reached out and gave Matt a tissue. “Okay,” he said quietly. “First of all, you are definitely worth way more than a hundred dollars. People aren’t money, but if we were then you’d totally be worth at least ten billion.”

Matt’s lips twitched at the edges. Foggy went on. “Second of all, thank you for telling me how you feel. I don’t know how you feel or what you’re thinking, and so when you’re telling me I’m happy about it, even if it’s not positive,” Foggy repeated like he’d praticed.

“Third of all, if those bad thoughts are stuff about disagreeing with me, or being mad at me, then...then that’s actually good. Because I want you to be free, as much as you can be--”

Matt snorted, and then clamped his hands over his mouth.

“No, no, tell me,” Foggy said. “I mean, Bee seemed like they could disagree with people all the time--”

“And they almost starved to death,” Matt said flatly. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to.”

Foggy couldn’t quite disagree with that. Trying to convince Matt that he wasn’t a horrible person, it seemed, wasn’t something he could do with words. The book had explained how when PTSD got to be intense enough, the horrible things you worried about didn’t seem like what-ifs anymore, but forces of nature you couldn’t control. People stopped thinking about car crashes or being hit or people they loved dying as anything but inevitable.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

Matt shifted. “I don’t feel like anything is real,” he murmured. “That’s why I’m saying all these things, I’m sorry, Foggy.”

“It’s okay,” Foggy said, and reached out. Matt was so fucked-up. “Let’s make a new rule, okay? You’re not allowed to hurt yourself really badly. And yes, this counts as really badly,” he added on. "And I'm not going to punish you for this, because it was in the rules before that you could hurt yourself--or, okay, at least that's what I meant for them to mean, I guess. But please don't do this again."

Matt nodded.

“And...I want you to think about how, um, how you can try to feel more like...like you want to about me, if that’s what the problem is, while I bandage up your back, or how to tell me what the real problem is if that’s not it,” Foggy said resolutely, and stood up to wash his hands.

 

 

\--

 

 

Matt thought about how to phrase it as Foggy cleaned and bandaged up the wounds, feeling the welts stinging and the blood be wiped away. He still didn’t feel anywhere near as scared or apologetic as he should; the world felt surreal, shrouded, like it was a book he was only half-remembering.

He licked his lips and said, softly, “I..I think the problem is that I’m not spending enough time remembering what I am.”

Foggy paused, and then kept smearing on ointment. “Yeah?”

“I don’t...there are very few things that I’m doing that are reminding me of what I really am, and that’s where the thoughts are coming from,” Matt said slowly. “If I did more of those things, I think that maybe they would go away, and I would be better.”

Foggy’s hands were so gentle. “Can you give me an example?”

“I should be kneeling more,” Matt murmured. He spent too much time sitting upright on his bed, or on the couch or at the table. “And I don’t...I don’t do enough for you. I’m allowed to behave like I’m a person, so it’s sort of a psychosomatic reaction, almost, to think like I am one.”

“Matt,” Foggy said, “I’m sorry, but..no, I’m not really sorry. I _do_ want you to think that you’re a person, because you are one, and--no, that’s not an order, shit, sorry.” He sighed. “I want you to think you are one for your own sake, okay?”

Matt shivered. No, no, he couldn’t. He didn’t want to.

“If I were a person, wouldn’t it be up to me what I was?” he murmured, daringly. “People have a right to self-definition.”

A pause. “Yeah,” Foggy muttered. “Which is why you’re totally allowed to think you’re not, but Matt, it just...it’s so fucked up. This whole thing is so fucked up.”

Matt didn’t respond.

“What kind of things ‘for me’ did you mean?”

Matt thought more. No sex, that wouldn’t…”Could I massage your feet?” he asked softly. “Or just..kneel at your side, being there? Or make you tea instead of you making it in the middle of the night? May I please just keep myself from rotting?”

Foggy’s hand came up, but didn’t slap Matt’s head. Instead he only stroked his hair for a second, and then finished bandaging him, taping a large pad over his back.

“If it’s your choice,” Foggy said. “But. Sometimes when you do stuff like that, I don’t know what...what my part is supposed to be. So how about you write it out for me somewhere, like in an email, how you’d want that to go? And I’ll see if I can...if that can be something that makes you feel better.”

\--

Foggy wasn’t sure this was a good idea.

He’d read over what Matt had sent him, and he _was_ tired, and it was a Sunday night, and Matt had asked if maybe he could wash and massage Foggy’s feet, and Foggy’s heart had hurt remembering how upset Matt had been once he’d stopped being so spaced out, how Matt had tried to sleep on the floor and couldn’t stop apologizing to Foggy for hurting himself and hurting Foggy and swearing at him, how Matt had called him loosening up _rotting_ , and if this could make Matt feel better then how could Foggy say no?

But still, as Matt brought over two large, flat bowls of water--one soapy, one clear--and knelt near Foggy’s feet, as he gently peeled off Foggy’s socks and tossed them into the hamper, and as he carefully started to wash them with a washcloth, Foggy felt...well, he felt like he did when Matt was in his bed and had asked for a kiss. He wanted so badly to just be _close_ to Matt, to be near him, to feel the warmth underneath that cool, self-protecting mask of all his _I’m not a person_ bullshit.

And he wanted to make Matt feel good. Matt did so much for Foggy, and the discrepancy felt even larger now that Foggy wasn’t tripping over himself to reassure Matt before he needed it. Matt made every meal. Matt kept his own space, his own things, and the kitchen spotless, whereas Foggy’s things tended to spill over into everywhere until he was almost tripping on them. Matt timed his showers and his waking up and his, well, just about everything so he wouldn’t annoy or piss off Foggy. He was even starting to disagree with Foggy more now because Foggy had told him that he  _liked_ it, that he wanted Matt to feel like he could express himself.

He couldn’t help but feel guilty some days. And this time, Matt had given him a real apology--something that felt like it came from him and not his training. So any anger Foggy had felt had deflated, dissolved into thin air.

So Foggy just sat back and let Matt wash his feet, slowly and carefully, and moaned a little bit at how nice the warm water was, and admire Matt a bit, his lips red from being bitten and his hair smooth and shiny and his hands so delicate and careful and thorough….

Foggy realized he was saying it out loud. But Matt liked it, his cheeks flushing, so he kept going, saying how it felt really good and Matt was doing a good job, and when his feet were rinsed (slowly and perfectly and warmly) and dried off with a soft, old washcloth, and Matt started to massage them, Foggy belatedly realized he was hard as a rock.

Matt didn’t even pause. His eyes were downcast, and he didn’t look afraid. He looked focused, and soft, and happy, and...submissive. Moreso than usual. More like when Foggy had fed him sushi that one time. He looked like he was in  _subspace_ , jesus christ, and how had Foggy not realized that before?

Foggy swallowed. Normally, when he’d looked at pictures of people who looked like they were in subspace, he wanted--he fantasized about _being_ them--but here, but with Matt looking so relaxed and calm and happy just to be allowed to touch Foggy’s feet, he--

He wanted Matt. So badly. He wanted to spread Matt back out on the floor and kiss him and rub him through his pants until Matt arched his back and begged and he wanted to bite Matt’s nipples and make him moan and blush and come as Foggy kissed him and even his collar too because Matt _really_ liked that--

And Foggy realized that he’d said _that_ aloud too, and froze. What the fuck?

“It’s okay, Foggy,” Matt said, breathing out his name like it was precious, “Being desired feels good. I’m not scared.”

Foggy stared at him. “Still, I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” Matt whispered, bending over to kiss each toe, softly and obscenely, and then reaching for the lotion to massage in next. “You could, if you wanted to.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Foggy said firmly. He felt a little shell-shocked at the kisses, at how ridiculously beautiful Matt was, but he knew that.

“I know,” Matt murmured, and finished rubbing in the lotion. Foggy’s legs tingled at the loss of contact as he took care of the cloth and the bowls, and then Matt came back and knelt next to Foggy’s legs, still graceful and lithe and definitely still in subspace.

(Seriously, _how_  had Foggy not realized that that was what that was before? Matt looked like every blissed-out actor in porn--no, he looked like every blissed-out real-person in those demos or amateur shots, the ones Foggy used to watch and jerk off too, the ones with real people and not porn actors’ personas.)

Foggy reached down and stroked up through Matt’s hair and swallowed. The next part involved him doing something and occasionally petting Matt, and he wasn’t sure…

But it turned out okay. He paid way more attention to Matt than he thought any other owner of Matt’s did when they were doing this, but it turned out okay, and by the end of Foggy re-reading his favorite _Captain America_ fanfic, Matt was still quiet and calm, a Mona Lisa smile on his lips, and Foggy's hard-on had gone way down, and nobody had gotten hurt.

"We're gonna be okay," Foggy said absently, tugging Matt up to come and sit against him. "You and me."

Matt smiled. "We are, Foggy."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from an untitled poem by Trista Mateer, here: http://tristamateer.com/post/54390052445/i-hope-one-day-somebody-loves-you-so-much-that


	128. with distant burdens and a glittering 'me'

It started when Bee stayed after a meeting.

Carlisle was still there, sitting and playing with her bunny's ears, and Bee was summoning up the courage to ask the question. During the meeting, two different people had cried and Emilia was still talking to one of them, one hand on his back and her eyes gentle and calm. Bee didn't want to interrupt. 

Finally, the boy nodded and another person--the boy's older brother--moved to take him home, and Emilia headed over.  _You look like you've got something you want to say,_ she signed. Her hands looked so thin, stretched-out and brittle.

Bee made it quick.  _I have a question to ask about...I guess about how things will be after, if everyone is free_.

Emilia nodded and sat down near them, on the floor too. Bee usually tried to sit in the armchair, but being able to sit down somewhere without padding and  _not_ get those bone-aches was delicious, and they intended to savor it. 

 _If there aren't any baby farms,_ Bee signed quickly,  _where will people who can't have children get their babies?_

Emilia tilted her head. Bee went on,  _And if there aren't organ farms, how will people who need new organs get transplants? Or will they just die?_ Bee wasn't an expert, but they were pretty sure some slaves--or ex-slaves--needed new organs. 

She looked like she was thinking hard about it.  _Those are good logistics questions_ , Emilia eventually signed.  _For those ones... I think that there will probably be people who end up becoming pregnant or having a baby and then not being able to take care of it, or want it, or would die. And people would be allowed to donate their organs if they wanted to, instead of being farmed for them._

Bee frowned and thought it over. That still didn't make sense. Who would give their organs away? They'd read that people got hearts, lungs, kidneys--didn't you need those to live? 

But they didn't want to push it harder. They didn't know a lot and maybe that wasn't even the actual answer, anyway. Sometimes Emilia skimmed around certain things, and they could all tell that it was because it was too close to information that nobody who wasn't one of the people  _doing things_ could have. Nobody questioned it. 

Carlisle chimed in too, signing in a different dialect than either of them, her dreamy face making it hard to understand her.  _Why does anybody let us be free_?

Emilia blinked. Bee turned to stare at her too.

 _All master did was die and then it said in his papers that I was supposed to be freed with his money,_ Carlisle elaborated.  _Why do they let anybody be freed?_

Emilia nodded and started to explain.  _My own theory is that there is just enough fear of possibly becoming slaves themselves that the government ensured that it was not always permanent._

Bee raised an eyebrow, and Carlisle didn't look terribly convinced. 

 _And the reason that is most probably correct is that freeing slaves is a for-profit enterprise by the US government_ , Emilia went on.  _The most common method is paying double--or triple, depending on class--of the value of a slave. That obviously benefits the government in the short-term. In the longer term, about 40% of freed slaves end up becoming enslaved again within 20 years, which benefits the government again, especially as it stimulates the economy in general but also because of how much they benefit from slaves being bought from the intake offices._

Bee rocked backwards. Without their conscious decision, their right hand helplessly signed  _why_ as their left squeezed their bear tight to them. 

 _And we get re-enslaved because of a lot of things. Companies don't hire ex-slaves, and schools don't accept us as often. We don't have as many degrees and many places think that slave GEDs or other degrees aren't worth as much. We have problems getting houses or apartments to live in. It's hard for us to not be homeless, and homeless people get arrested on trumped-up charges and enslaved. A lot of us also end up committing crimes--just like a lot of always-free people--but then end up enslaved for that too. Especially the ones of us who decide to have sex for money--that's a crime that always end up with enslavement as a punishment. Or we end up in debt that we can't pay back, if we even manage to get a loan or a credit card in the first place. If we were enslaved by parents or guardians, the same or new ones end up enslaving us again. And of course cinderellas get enslaved again_.

Bee saw Carlisle nod, and felt a dawning horror. Cinderellas--well, okay, that one was obvious, cinderellas were slaves who'd found a man who promised to free them, but always for a price--marriage or a baby or sex or something else, and then without fail the price would either be too high or they'd get enslaved anyways.

 _And some of us go back, either by becoming V-class or sabotaging ourselves or deliberately getting caught. Because some ex-slaves look at how hard it is to navigate a new world, and figure that they were good enough at being a slave that it's better to go back to doing what they know_ , Emilia finished, shaking out her hands and cracking them. 

Bee's stomach felt like it had fallen through the floor and their throat was tight. The idea--going back to that--that kind of reasoning sounded like some crazy shit Matt would do. 

They squeezed Anthea tight, and saw that Carlisle had gone wide-eyed and close-mouthed, holding her bunny like a lifeline as well. Emilia hastily reassured them,  _But it's not a guarantee. And that's why we have programs like this, that's why we're doing things like this, to help people not go back. You don't have to go back at all._

 _I'm not going back. I will die first._ Bee signed definitively once they could make their hands work.  _Never. Ever. Fuck that._

Carlisle nodded quietly too, lifting her chin up.  _Never ever._

Emilia smiled.  _Live free or die._

They both echoed it.  _Live free or die_.

And on the walk home, Carlisle's skin glowing dark blue against the moonlight as they walked a ways before having to part, she signed slowly,  _I think we should go to the doctor's together._  

Bee stiffed.  _Why?_

_My mother wants me to go to the doctor, but I don't want her there. She cries whenever she remembers that anything bad ever happened to me, and it's hard to concentrate when I can't look away from her crying._

Bee blinked. That, well, okay, they could hardly argue with that. But as much as they  _liked_ Carlisle, they weren't sure they wanted to go somewhere else with just her. _If I can bring my friend Matt, maybe,_ they signed slowly. Carlisle could lip-read well enough, but it was never as good as signing, Bee had been told.  _Maybe_.

Maybe. It seemed like that was all anything ever was anymore--uncertain.

* * *

 

"Dinner!"

Candace looked up from her laptop at Dad's voice. "Be down in five!" She yelled back, and then went back to what she was reading: specifically, an essay called  _What Shall We Do Now?_ that felt like it was being spoken directly  _at her_.

It was by someone anonymous--well, by a blogger who went by 'Calliope's Cousin' but had never once posted anything else to call them by--and it was about how people who had always been free, who had never understood slavery from the inside, could help other people escape slavery and recover from it, and it was also an tirade against the idea that just because you personally had never owned slaves or sold anyone that you didn't help slavery keep going.

_Have you ever paid taxes? Paid a hospital bill? Had a complicated medical procedure or used a drug developed after 1910? Adopted an American child? Bought things made or patented by Monsanto? Shopped at a Whole Foods or a Harris-Teeter? Eaten 'organic' vegetables or fruits? Then you too have directly given money to the system of slavery that pervades all level of race, class, and gender throughout our society. Nobody is innocent. Nobody is bloodless._

And though it made Candace shake with guilt, she couldn't stop reading. Especially not when it had specific things you should do, written by somebody who clearly knew their stuff. Mom had sat down with her and told her that she should go to a new therapist (the one for depression had been useless, as hers turned out to be pretty much biological), and eventually Candace had agreed to go ahead and try it out, starting tomorrow.

But tonight was about her facing her guilt--not just for hurting Matt, though that still felt like a sharp pain in her chest to think about. She had imagined over and over again if a guy had been doing that to one of her friends, or even  _her_ _,_ and the idea was unbearable. No wonder Bee--who Candace had talked to, had even watched some shows with, had thought she was well on the way to being  _friends_ with--hated her.

Candace realized her eyes were getting red again and scrubbed hard at them and took a deep breath. She looked up and Dad was standing there, looking concerned.

"Hey, are you okay? Dinner's getting cold."

"I'm fine," she muttered. And she was fine.  _She_ wasn't a slave who couldn't defend themselves or say no or make anyone stop. 

"Candace," he said, and she braced herself. "Please get off your computer and come downstairs. I made that thing with chicken and red sauce and cheese."

Candace sniffled. "Okay."

"I mean it. Now."

" _Okay!_ " She snapped, and stood up to come downstairs, following him. She stomped over to the table and sat down heavily--

And the shitty old chair  _broke_ , and she landed on her ass--

And promptly burst into tears.

"Candace? Candace, are you hurt?"

She shook her head, still crying. She was fine. It was just that if anything moved too quickly or something happened, she kept freaking out and losing it.

Then Dad gently pulled her up, and pulled her into a hug. "Shh, c'mere," he said. "It's okay, Candace, it's okay," and she sobbed for a minute, holding on tight.

"C'mere," he said. "It's okay. We'll eat dinner on the couch, alright? And then we can talk and watch something funny. You like that one comedian, don't you? Ilsa something?"

"Ilsa Schlessinger," Candace mumbled. "Okay."

They ended up sitting next to each other, Candace picking at her chicken parm and sipping at a cup of lemon and ginger tea. "Hey," Dad said, nudging her, "How is it?"

"It's fine," she muttered. "Tastes like snot."

Dad laughed quietly and poked her in the ribs, and she laughed and leaned into him.

"Hey," he said after a minute. "So I want you to listen to me, alright? This is important. I know that this whole...Matt and Foggy thing has been bugging you."

Candace pulled back and twisted to look at him better. Dad looked old and tired, suddenly. "I know what it is to do things you're ashamed of," Dad said quietly. "To hurt people and then look back on it later and feel like you're terrible."

Candace looked at him. "You mean...the drug stuff?" She asked. She knew about it, a little--Dad had coins for how long he was sober, and he went to meetings about once or twice a year.

Dad looked thoughtful. "No, not really," he said. "I didn't hurt anyone when I smoked it. No, I mean--things that I can't really tell you about, Candy."

She felt alarmed against herself, and sat back against the arm of the couch. "Dad--what--"

"No, no, nothing like that," Dad said hastily. "Shit. I'm sorry. No, I mean stuff like--what have you overheard about my family, before we moved to New York?"

Candace paused. "I--that you were in a fucked-up cult?"

Dad sighed. "That's one way to put it," he said, and ate another bite of the dinner. "I don't want to scare you," he said. "And you're my daughter, not my therapist. But there, I didn't...I could have left earlier. I could have not bought into the kind of things that...were said." 

She could see it hurt Dad to talk, but he continued on. 

"And I have always gone back and forth on whether or not we should have let Foggy be around Rosalind, if we shouldn't have just told her no and gone to court, lord knows she didn't want him back until she realized she didn't own him anymore--" and Dad cut himself off. "Don't tell your mother I told you that, she'll be pissed. Anyway, what I mean, Candace, is that--you don't need to be this sorry about what you did, okay? Doing things that hurt other people--it hurts. And a little bit of guilt and shame is all that you need to be feeling. You're smart, and you're young, and you haven't done anything that you can't make up for. Your brother has been overreacting a bit, and that's on him, not you."

Candace blinked. "No," she said. "He--no, okay, I totally get how he feels. If someone was acting like I did to one of my friends, I'd be pretty pissed."

Dad looked at her a little sadly. "It's not right," he said. "You're his sister."

"And Matt's his family too," she said without thinking, and was surprised to realize it was true. Maybe family in more of a spousal sense--but family nonetheless. Foggy lived with Matt, refused to let anyone say anything mean about him at all. Foggy had always kind of been a mother hen with his friends--except for Brett, who wasn't exactly his friend--but this was more.

Foggy had spent Christmas morning with Matt. Not her, not Dad and not Mom. That meant something.

"Matt's Foggy's family," Candace said, strengthening. "And I treated  _his family_ really badly. Dad, when he says I would've--gone further--" and she felt sick, "He's right. I would have. And then-- _that's_ not something that could be made up for."

She shook a little, but that was the truth. It was about time it was said.

The lock turned in the door, and Mom walked in. "Hey," she said, smiling. "What's for dinner?"

"I made that chicken thing," Dad said, looking over and kissing Mom as she walked over.

"Hello, Candace," Mom said. "How are you?"

Candace took a breath.

"I'm okay, I guess," she breathed out. "Um. Therapy's tomorrow at ten."

"Yes, it is," Mom nodded. "And I'm taking you out to lunch afterwards--we could also get it out and come eat here, if you'd rather."

"Mom, you don't have to--"

"No, I don't, but I will," Mom said firmly. "You're doing a very good thing, and the best way to make sure you keep doing it is by rewarding yourself each time. Every time I keep an appointment with a patient, I eat two chocolate squares."

Dad laughed. "And when I was getting sober, every time I went on a date with your mother and fucked it up--"

Mom leaned back, rolling her eyes, "Oh, hush, Edward, you didn't  _fuck it all up_ \--"

"I'd go back home and watch another good hour of SNL," Dad said, and Mom laughed and leaned in and they kissed  _again_ , and Candace wrinkled her nose.  _Gross_.

* * *

 

The plan of letting Matt come to  _him_ when he needed help, Foggy discovered, had an unexpected benefit: it made being around Matt  _fun_ again.

Even more than before, in fact. It had somehow become  _really really funny_ whenever Matt shittalked anyone or anything. Foggy laughed every time Matt said that flavored cream cheese was disgusting or that the idiot on the baking show adding beets to a German chocolate cake was clearly a complete moron or that the person who'd written their Torts textbook should have been a real estate agent, 'just like Ernest Hemingway', and each time Matt would smile and laugh too, and they both relaxed more around each other.

And it meant that Foggy knew he was seeing the  _real_ Matt, or--well, okay, he couldn't really be sure of that, not with how good Matt was at figuring out what people wanted. But it felt closer to who he really was, and even if it wasn't--well, if it made Matt laugh and calm down and not cry or hurt himself, wasn't that a good thing? And didn't it show, over and over again, that he could disagree with Foggy and it would all be  _fine_?

And then on April 3rd, Foggy got a call from Rosalind, saying that the suit was over and she would send him a copy of the verdict. He anxiously opened it on his phone.

* * *

 

Matt was baking and listening to his reading.

He was making, specifically, an Americanized version of Victoria sandwiches--replacing the sponge cake with sour cream pound cake, the cream and raspberry jam with a vanilla whipped cream and lemon curd--and listening to a reading on the difference between representing a defendant with the intent to get them the smallest possible sentence, and representing a defendant with the intent to force the prosecution to give the most honest, thorough case possible.

He felt  __indescribably _better_ ever since he had been allowed to treat Foggy properly, and Foggy had started to show Matt how much he enjoyed owning him. Each soft touch, every quiet word of praise, each fingertip as it stroked Matt's scalp while Foggy did something else--it was an entire conversation, every single detail, Matt asking  _am I good enough_ and Foggy answering back  _of course you are_.

He didn't have to lie about anything--not what he was (a slave, _Foggy's_ good slave, Foggy's _good Matt_ ), not what he couldn't be (the person Foggy had mistakenly seen under his skin), not what he wanted (to just be told he was  _good_ for once), and not even his opinions on strawberry cream cheese (a frankly hideous abomination on par with 'fat-free' cheese). 

Matt's horribly insolent thoughts had gone away, and the disagreeing opinions had softened as they were supposed to, and Matt now had the delicious power to make Foggy  _laugh_ every time he said any of them out loud. It was amazing. Things were going  _so well_.

As he finished creaming the butter and confectioner's sugar together with the mixer, and started to add in the first egg (one at a time, or else they'd curdle), he heard Foggy walk over and paused the reading on his laptop.

"Foggy?" He asked.

"Matt," and Foggy sounded  _happy_ , so Matt tensed a little less, "Matt, they--the suit's over, we won, the settlement is for five million dollars!"

Matt blinked and smiled warmly. Yes, that was very good, Foggy getting what he deserved. 

"They--the judge said it wasn't just how much your, uh, value got diminished but all this about the reasonable expectations of the treatment of slaves and an environment of property damage and legal fees and all of this shit, and he awarded more than Rosalind was pushing for. And, well, okay, most of it is going to go into the Nelson family fund, obviously, but we are totally going to live it the fuck up!" Foggy said, voice getting higher and walking over and hugging Matt tightly.

Matt smiled and hugged him back, careful not to let his butter- and sugar-coated hands touch Foggy. "That is lovely," he said warmly. "You deserve it."

"No, you totally deserve it," Foggy said, laughing. "I am going to get you anything you want, you know that? Anything. As long as it's not a giraffe, we went over why that's not really possible."

Matt laughed. "No, I don't want a giraffe," he said. "Can I--may I," he said, catching himself, goodness what was  _wrong_ with him-- "May I think about something for after it's been transferred and budgeted?"

"Of course you can, buddy," Foggy said, smiling into him, hugging him still. "It's just so fucking big! We can  _buy_ our own apartment for after college! We don't have to worry about when the school's healthcare runs out! We can--Matt, we could buy only the weird organic stuff,  _forever_ , and I could--I could pay off my parent's car payments, I could  _buy my own car_ , I could buy  _Candace_ a car for when she goes to school because I know she only wants to go somewhere in the middle of nowhere, I could--I could buy  _Bee_ their own place too, I could be the one paying when me and Marci eat out--"

And Matt felt a low, ugly curl of jealousy in him at that. Marci was...well, she reminded him of a rather low-budget version of Summer who thought  _she_ was the high-end version. And frankly it was beneath him to insult a free person to  _that_ extent, even in his own head, but it was how he felt.

"I could--Matt, holy shit, it's so much fucking money," Foggy said breathlessly. 

Matt smiled. "I'm always glad to be of service, Foggy," he joked, and there was a second of awful pause before Foggy laughed a little too.

"Still not your fault," he said, pulling back from the hug. "And I'm still so glad you're not hurt permanently from it."

Matt nodded. "I know," he said quietly. "I am too."

Foggy pulled him close again, and Matt listened to the wet mix going, the laptop fan, and every single fiber in Foggy's warm, strong arms.

* * *

 

It happened when Matt was walking back from Fogwell's gym.

He was still thinking over what he wanted. Of course he wouldn't get too greedy, and Foggy was budgeting most of it to put away carefully for later use and emergencies, but he  _did_ insist that Matt get himself a few nice things, and Matt did like nice things when he'd earned them.

Foggy didn't like jewelry, and Matt wasn't missing anything truly essential--a Braille printer, maybe, but Matt knew that wasn't the sort of thing Foggy would be ecstatic at him picking out. It wasn't a luxury. It wasn't a thing that Matt would  _love_. Books--well, Matt could buy himself plenty of e-books for quite a bit less than the amount of money that would probably be appropriate to spend on the item. Matt didn't want to ask for truly expensive clothes; nice suits and other such things were in the future budget for when they were closer to getting internships and jobs at law firms. Pets were well beyond out of the question. Foggy didn't want to move, and Matt didn't either, and their lease didn't allow pets. Other slaves were out the question. Foggy didn't like owning anyone besides Matt. 

Matt  _had_ a nice kneeling pad, and the more expensive gyms would probably be too upfront about treating their slaves like slaves for Foggy's comfort. Matt could ask for expensive baking ingredients or cooking implements, but quite honestly he'd found that expensive cookware didn't always deliver, and they didn't have the kind of storage space for duplicate sets of pots and pans. He wasn't missing anything essential. A spa day might be somewhat nice, but--Foggy wouldn't want to drop him off, and the process would make him uncomfortable to see. 

Matt was so lost in careful, puzzling thought that he didn't notice the familiar heartbeat and smell before she was walking directly next to him. 

"Hello, Matt," Summer said, and he froze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from Molly Peacock's "Putting A Burden Down".


	129. parents are the bones on which children cut their teeth

Matt froze, and then turned around. Summer emphasized--always--that since his owners would be overwhelmingly sighted, she expected him to show them proper respect by facing them when they spoke to him, and she was always testing him.  _Always_.

He swallowed. "I'm not permitted to speak to you."

"I read about the suit in the news," she said mildly. "It was fascinating, the politics behind the settlement amount, and the far-reaching legal consequences. Tell me, how on earth did you persuade your owner to pursue such a case?"

Matt's brow furrowed--what--

"Ah, you didn't. Good, I had hoped you'd learned from your own, ah, experiences not to use the legal system to solve problems. When are you being sold?"

Matt's brain raced. Oh, because the suit was based on his value, it was even more public how much he was worth, and therefore people were making offers. "If my owner has received any offers, he has remained singularly uninterested in them," Matt said.

She raised an eyebrow and switched to French, which took a second for him to follow suit into. "I don't suppose that disinterest has any exceptions for, oh, say, the CEO of Stark Industries and/or a very interesting businesswoman?"

Matt stopped walking. "If my owner receives any offers of that sort, I expect he will still be uninterested in selling me," he said, and felt confident once he'd finished. Foggy had no interest in ever selling Matt, and he certainly didn't need to for his finances at the moment. 

She sighed, and  _that_ meant something. Summer didn't have emotions like an average slave; if she was displaying them then they were inherently communicative. It meant, Matt realized, that she felt disappointed in him, in his insistence--

"Why does Winter want me back?" Matt asked, switching to Russian instead. He'd been wondering since Bee had been officially owned by Foggy why it was that Winter had tried to buy him back. Discussing Winter in English always felt somehow intensely ruder. 

"What?" Either that was genuine surprise and confusion, or she was just leading him. Either way--

"Why does he want me back?" Matt spat out, feeling anger long-suppressed rise up in him. "He sold me. You told him to sell me, that it would be the only way, that it was the safest bet, and he sold me and  _you_ helped him. Why does he want me back? Is it just because he didn't want to sell me in the first place?"

She sighed again, but it was the exasperated  _why must you be so slow_ sigh. "Yes, dear child, it is because he did not want to have to get rid of such an incredible investment that was  _already_ turning out to be well worth it all. You know him. He doesn't like having to give up his things."

Matt stalked forward, and she was beside him again in a second, but the second gave him a chance to  _think_. "Well, my owner will never sell me back to Winter," Matt said finally. 

"Were you under the impression that I didn't want you back too?" Summer said, ignoring him. "Did you think--child, it wasn't a secret plot to get rid of you. I did it  _for_ you--"

And  _that_ made his lip curl, because it was true and he knew it, her metronome heart said it, and he knew it and he hated it. Nobody besides Summer had ever once cared about him since he had become a non-person, not one single slave or person, nobody would ever do things just  _for_ him, just her, it was only her and he wasn't owned by her owner anymore--

And then Matt blinked, because that was wrong. Jo had given Matt a chocolate truffle, once, and Charlotte had given Matt her own chicken drumstick when he was on starvation; Anna and Edward had bought him a stand mixer for Christmas. Bee gave him a knife and a teddy bear--not that Matt had ever used it--and, if Matt needed something desperately, they would give him that too. But most of all was  _Foggy_ , who did things like pet his hair and tell him he was good, who let Matt pick out a baking show to watch instead of anything Foggy actually liked, who wanted Matt to pick out a present after winning a suit he'd only pursued because Matt was hurt. Foggy had given him  _Christmas presents_ , Dad's robe--

Matt felt electrified. None of those things had been about their self-image or maintaining a charitable appearance. Foggy was horrified whenever he hurt Matt; Bee didn't give a shit about what other people thought about how they treated Matt. Jo had paid Matt back for the mango, yes, but she had been an overseer, she didn't  _have_ to. Charlotte had been much too innocent to worry about things besides the fact that Matt had been hungry and she had not been. Anna and Edward had never been expected to give Matt anything, and stand mixers were hardly cheap. 

Summer wasn't the only one who had done things just for slave number 556682394441.

"People have done things for me, and so have other slaves," Matt said coolly. "And somehow, when they have done these things, it hasn't ended up with me being sold and alone."

Summer barked a laugh. "Don't be such an infant. It has only made you stronger, child."

Matt turned his head and twisted his face into incredulity, stronger and uglier than he was meant to. Did she really think he was  _better_ than he had been when he was trained and tested and maintained and  _perfect_? "Do you really think that?" he said instead of anything else, and walked faster.

She caught up in a moment. "Of course I do. It's the truth of things."

"I'm not stronger." It was awful to say out loud, and this time in English. "You didn't make me stronger by casting me off like dead weight."

She sounded frustrated. "You're not getting my meaning. It was to protect you. In the event that he was convicted, they would have executed you."

"And not you?"

"Of course not," she said. "Dear child, do you know the things I've done for the American government? They will never execute me. Ever."

Matt said nothing and walked faster. He couldn't exactly run, not on the street without a cane, not where there could be unexpected obstacles too small for his hearing to detect in time, but he was getting close.

"I saved you from being killed and you're acting like a petulant piece of bargain-pin sullen trash--" and here her voice wasn't shouting, she never shouted, but it was cold and furious.

"Did you ever think it would be better if I  _had_ died? If you had taken that chance?" Matt snapped, surprised by his words but feeling them keenly. It felt like something he had pushed to the side for years but had known was there anyways.

"You cannot be serious."

"I would rather have died than you sell me," Matt said, voice going from angry to wet and hurt and small, like it had been when he'd cried during intake and after his first week with Mistress Sharon, when it truly sunk in that he was alone again and always would be. "I would rather have stayed and been executed if things went wrong."

"You--" Summer sounded stunned. "You wanted to die?"

Matt shook his head. "I wanted to stay with you. I wanted to be there, I wanted you to be there if I had to die."

"You  _idiot_ child," she said, and stepped forward from where Matt had stopped without a conscious decision. "I was always going to come back for you," and she cupped his face, her manicured fingernails, her hands that could, with effort, bend vibranium. "I gave you my blood. Do you know what I have done to owners before, for them trying to take my blood? I killed people with him to destroy their samples. And I poured it into your mouth and into your body and you drank and drank."

Matt's eyes burned. His jaw hurt from the effort of not crying. Crying had never been allowed.

"It did not kill you or burn you or cripple you. And I gave you more and more. I told you the stories, and you drank those up too," she said, so soft and gentle. "Do you understand? You have the blood inside you. When I am to die, you will wake up as I woke up once. You will have in you what has made me live so long. You will be so much. Don't ever say that you ought to have died."

"If I could go back and do it all over again, I wish I would have died," Matt whispered against the force of her. "It was worse."

"It hurts, child, I know," and then she kissed him gently between his eyes. "But death is worse. I made the right decision, and you should always have been grateful. One day we will find our way back to each other, and you will thank me for what I did."

_No_ , Matt thought.  _I won't_.

She let him go, and left. Matt went home, thinking numbly of being sold, of Mistress Sharon's hands, of her bed. The sheets had been the softest cotton he'd ever been on, Egyptian, with a three-digit threadcount.

He would rather die than touch Egyptian cotton ever again.

Matt climbed up the nearest building and went by the rooftops instead of on the street. When he tapped on the window to get in and Foggy opened it, Matt said, "I know what I would like."

"Yeah?"

"Could--" and his throat was dry. "Could I have silk sheets?"

"Oh, yeah," Foggy said, sleepy and warm, "Sure. That sounds great. I'll get a couple and a set for when we're living somewhere fancy and we both have giant beds, does that sound good?"

Matt nodded, and felt grateful as he went to go shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is a quote by Peter Urstinov.


	130. extracting happiness from common things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra disclaimer: I am not a medical professional and this is not legally medical advice. The words of the fictional character Dr Kayle are 100% her in-universe opinions and beliefs. This is not a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician or other qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition and do not use the internet for this stuff.

"Hi, welcome to Bed Finery, the finest of beds and bed-related wares! Today we have a sale on Egyptian cotton 2000-threadcount sheet sets in over thirty different patterns, on sale for 70% off--"

"Uh, no thanks," Foggy said, glancing at Matt's face. "No, we just want silk sheets, do you have that?"

"Yes we absolutely do," the salesperson said with a cheery smile. The person's voice was an uncanny cross between a peppy hipster guy with a beard at a farmer's market and Foggy's Aunt Jillian, and it made him stand back further than he normally would. "What size bed would you be buying the sheets for?"

"Uh..." Foggy couldn't remember--

"The beds are size twin XL, Foggy," Matt murmured in his ear. 

"Twin XL," Foggy said.

"Alright...and what color would you like?"

"Um," Foggy said. 

"Black stains the least, Foggy, except for semen," Matt murmured, and Foggy blinked. Huh.

"Black," he said.

"Alright...and would you like two or  _three_ pillowcases to go with it?"

"How many pillows do you have?" Foggy asked, turning to Matt.

"Four, Foggy."

"Um, four," Foggy said. 

"Four it is. Here you go," the salesperson said, walking with them to a large wall filled with sheets packaged from floor to ceiling and grabbing a package. "Your total is..."

Foggy paid, and then he and Matt left to go grab smoothies, Foggy insisting on carrying the bag. They had enough time before Matt had to go with Bee and a friend of theirs to a doctor's appointment, and Foggy felt a little bit like he wanted to grab every chance he could to spend the lawsuit money.

Rosalind had taken none of it--she'd asked instead to have a single dinner with Foggy 'in a place of my choosing', which made Foggy grit his teeth but if that was the price he had to pay for  _five and a half million dollars_ , he was happy to pay it--and some of it was still coming in, but Foggy felt a lot like he had when he'd realized that Bee was actually  _free_ , that he had actually  _helped free someone_ : absolutely relieved. Everything looked better; everything was calmer. 

"So," Foggy said once he'd gotten his strawberry, banana, and chocolate smoothie. "Can I ask why you wanted silk sheets?"

"Well, it only makes sense," Matt said with a smile, "For my very best owner's bed to have the very best sheets."

Foggy felt his face go bright red and turned to look away. He counted tables to the left of them, and then the right, and then looked back to see Matt no longer smiling and sipping his mango-coconut-passionfruit smoothie, but instead looking guilty and sad.

"I'm so sorry, Foggy, please punish me--"

"No, it's--" and Foggy stopped. Miriam had pointed out that he had a tendency to say 'it's fine' or 'it's okay' even when an apology was actually warranted. "I accept your apology."

Matt nodded, and the tense silence was back. This kept happening, and Foggy didn't know why: Matt would flirt (sticking out his ass when he was baking, lie naked on his bed with his feet up in the air and flutter his eyelashes at Foggy, say things like  _that_ in  _that_ tone) and then, after Foggy felt a wave of sick panic, look like a kicked dog and apologize. He couldn't figure out if it was Matt testing him or punishing him or what, and any which way he deserved it.

Bee walked over not long after, with a friend that looked a little like Luna Lovegood to Foggy: their friend had black hair in a lot of little braids with gold threads that gleamed against her skin, and was holding a purple rabbit, and was wearing a loose, ruffled dress embroidered with vegetables. Her eyes were huge and dreamy and Foggy felt weird.

"Hi," he said, and Bee waved at him before gently poking Matt in the shoulder. 

"I will text you as soon as we arrive and leave the practice, Foggy," Matt murmured, and Foggy nodded.

"See you then," he said, and went back to his own smoothie.

* * *

 

The ride over was very awkward.

Bee's friend, Carlisle, made no attempt at any kind of conversation, and Bee had discovered a new form of communication for both of them: a method where each segment of the finger held a specific letter of the alphabet when touched, and the right thumb meant 'yes' and 'no'. It was slow-going at first for Matt, but once they had settled into a rhythm of touching each other's hands, it worked.

[Where did you find this doctor?]

[Emilia recommended them.]

Matt frowned. [Who is Emilia?]

There was no answer. Bee pulled back, and then eventually said, [How are you?]

[Fine. We got the silk sheets today, and I'll put them on my bed tonight.]

Bee's hands squeezed his. [I don't think that's all. You seem weird lately.]

_Weird_ was probably an accurate way to describe it, Matt thought. He kept replaying the conversation with Summer over and over in his head, turning it and trying to  _understand_ it. He swung between feeling filthy and angry, between how she'd taught him wrong, been incomplete, had never prepared him for how he  _wanted_ Foggy sometimes, how he fantasized about him in the shower even when he  _wasn't_ getting off, and how she had taught him  _everything_ and he was just a disappointing dirty slut. 

Matt felt like he was spinning out of control, and the awful part was that nobody else seemed to notice. Foggy was happy, which was lovely for him and made Matt feel at least a little bit not-worthless, but Bee wasn't concerned, just irritated, and who else  _noticed_ things about Matt?

Bee poked him in the ribs. [Seriously. You're being weird. What is it?]

[What do you think of Summer?]

There was another pause, and the car made a left turn. Bee had waved off his offer of paying for the cab, saying that they'd been given extra money for it. [I think that she's smart, and beautiful, and being around her is kind of amazing. But she also is kind of crazy.]

Matt blinked. [How?]

[I mean, the way she talks...] Bee paused for a minute. [She's smart, and she knows what she's talking about, and I guess she did help me a little, but she reminded me of Class Vs in those videos we watched in training. What are those called again? Movies that are meant to teach you a lesson but they're bullshit?]

[Propaganda?]

[Yeah. And she..the way she looks at you is weird. Like how owners look at slaves. I don't know, I don't really know her.]

Matt thought about it too, and the rest of the ride he was alone.

* * *

 Bee was tense as they got out of the car to see Trish. Emilia had pointed out that Carlisle needed an interpreter there, and Bee had told her that they knew Trish and she had been so far respectful, and Emilia coordinated with her to come and then get paid afterwards. 

 Carlisle had put her bunny in her bag as she got out of the car and smoothed down her skirt before striding in. The doctor's office looked different immediately--clean, but not the same way. Nothing smelled like industrial solvents, and Bee couldn't hear any crying, and there were only two slaves in the room besides them and Matt--

Besides Matt. And neither of the slaves looked upset or hurt or bleeding, either; one was sitting next to a girl around Bee's age with red hair, and one was clearly a nanny-slave for the kids of the sneezing woman next to her, with a sparkly cyan jelly collar and little toys she was using to distract them. Bee watched in vague fascination as she plucked up one of the toddlers, sniffed, and then carried him off to the bathroom despite his complaints.

And then they were jerked back into the present by Trish voicing for Carlisle. "We're here to see Doctor Kayle?"

"It's pronounced like 'kale'," one of the receptionists said, and the sight of her made Bee flinch a little on the inside. Apparently  _they_ dressed the same. "And she'll be with you in about five minutes. Please fill out these new forms first and take a seat."

Bee took one of the clipboards and walked over with Carlisle once Trish had finished interpreting, and then stared at the paper. Some of the words looked familiar, but most...didn't. They made the questions nonsensical:  _when was your last tetanus vaccine?_ Other questions Bee had no answers to: what did they weigh? When  _was_ their last period?

They left the form blank, looking up and watching the nanny-slave instead. She was playing with the three kids, all of them little and waddling around. None of them looked afraid, and neither did she; her hair was in two short braids, and she didn't flinch when one of the kids pulled on it by mistake. It reminded Bee of how golden retrievers looked in dog documentaries, and then they felt sick at their own thoughts, and then angry.

It actually  _did_ only take the doctor five minutes to come out. "Hi, patients here a Bee Elle and a Carlisle Langwright?"

"Yes, that's us," Trish said just as Carlisle signed it, and Bee stood up and followed, leading Matt with them.

It was very strange following her--all the doors were  _closed_ , and no-one was screaming in a single one. Dr Kayle closed the door behind them, and Bee stood back against a wall instead of sitting down on the padded chair. Carlisle sat down near Bee, and Trish stood up facing them, next to Dr Kayle, who had taken a seat in a rolling chair. 

"I'd like to explain the rules of this office to you," she said. She looked calm, and wasn't wearing a white coat; instead, she was wearing a huge t-shirt with the words  _Grateful Dead_ on the front and a pair of jeans. She barely looked like a doctor at all. "As a doctor, it's my job to help you be healthy and heal from any injuries, illnesses, and treat any disorders as best as I can. But I'm not in charge of your medical decisions, and if you refuse something, I will accept that and work with you to make sure that you're getting the best care possible anyway. Because I've never seen you before, I need to take some basic measurements, if that's okay with you. That includes your height and weight, and if you're comfortable, I'd like to take some blood and urine for testing. Part of this also includes seeing you naked, if you consent, but if you don't want to undress at any time I won't make you. I will try to explain what I'm doing and why, and if at any point you feel uncomfortable or in pain, please let me know so I can stop and work with you to make this painless."

Dr Kayle paused, and took a swig of water.

"Now, do you need help on your intake form?" Dr Kayle asked.

_Yes_. "Yes," Trish voiced.

"Okay, may I see it?"

Dr Kayle didn't make any motion to take the clipboard from Bee, so they handed it over slowly. 

"Okay, let's start at the beginning. Are there any questions on there that you didn't understand?" Her voice was gentle and friendly and it both made Bee feel inexplicably soothed and irritated. She wasn't quite using the slave-voice, but it was still gentle.

_What are 'vaccines'?_ Bee asked, fingerspelling with one hand, the other finding its way to Matt's and squeezing. They hated feeling stupid. 

"Vaccines are small injections of dead or weakened diseases," Dr Kayle explained. "It's used to give people immunity to those diseases. Do you ever remember having them?"

_I can remember being injected with things,_ Bee signed slowly.

"Okay. Do you remember what they were?"

_They didn't tell us._

Dr Kayle looked up, and nodded. "Is it written down anywhere? Do you know if you have any medical records?"

Bee blinked.  _It's in my papers._ Because of course, that was where slaves' medical records were, proof of health and lack of diseases--diseased slaves got dinged down and bought up to be zombies, of course. 

"Do you have your papers with you?"

Bee felt confused. Why would  _they_ \--

But, oh. This wasn't--Bee didn't  _have_ an owner who had to bring in the papers. Bee didn't even have a copy of their own papers--shit, they must have--Foggy probably had the most recent copy. And they hadn't realized they should get it, or bring it, or--

They felt abruptly humiliated, and then realized Dr Kayle was saying, "Okay, you can bring it in again or fax it to the office another time. Everyone here has a contract that they sign to agree to never share confidential information unless it's to the police, and even then it's only once proof of death has been verified. Medical records are covered under confidential information."

Bee stared at their feet, trying to breathe, and squeezed Matt's hand. He squeezed back, and they glanced at his face: emotionless and proper, calm. It made them feel stronger, and then they looked at Dr Kayle and readied theirself.

* * *

 

As it turned out, the most awful part of the entire thing was the anticipation. Dr Kayle was patient and moved slowly, never asking Trish or Matt to leave, and explained each thing every step of the way, especially once it became clear that neither Bee nor Carlisle had even a little bit of an idea why she was doing what she was doing.

"Weight has less to do with health than most people think, but it's still something we like to know. You're both underweight, but that might be your genetic body type, and as long as you both try to eat enough to be full and get some vegetables, protein, fruit, and carbohydrates every day, it's not something we probably need to worry about right now."

"The cup has instructions for how to do the urine sample, and when you're done just put it in the little slot. It opens both ways, but there's a light above it so that we don't open it up when anyone's in there."

"Can I see your fingernails, please? Fingernails that are blue, for example, are often a sign of poor circulation. Okay, that looks normal."

"The blood tests can help us make sure you aren't developing a lot of different conditions, and give us a baseline so that in the future we have something to compare any more blood to."

"If you'd like anybody to leave the room for the part where I do need to see you naked, then that's okay. If not, that's also okay."

"Okay, I'm going to palpate your abdomen a little here. If any of your organs there are hard or inflamed or hurt, it's important for me to know, because that is a sign of a lot of serious problems, like bowel blockages or appendicitis."

"You look normal, as far as I can tell. I can send you home with a sheet on how to check your breasts for lumps by hand, and if anything develops then you need to see a doctor immediately. Breast cancer is mostly curable  _if_ you get the right care for it."

And even when Bee's throat refused to cooperate, when they couldn't make any sound, Dr Kayle didn't look angry or frustrated once, just calm and nodding. Bee didn't feel self-conscious at all about stripping for the exam, to their mild surprise--Matt couldn't look at them, Carlisle had seen everything, like all slaves, and Trish...didn't look. She couldn't exactly face away, but her eyes stayed on Bee and Carlisle's  _faces_ the entire time. It was-- _sweet_.

The blood sample was nothing. The urine sample was equally nothing--Bee snickered mentally at the idea of someone having to handle their piss, and besides, doing it when you got to  _lock a door behind you_ was easy. The being touched was...not nothing, but Dr Kayle explained everything and didn't once flick a nipple or rub against Bee's inner thighs or look at them with a faint jealousy that  _someone_ got to fuck them. She spoke to  _Carlisle_ when she was speaking to her, not to Trish. 

At the end, once they were redressed, Dr Kayle addressed them, sitting down and looking a little more serious. "Okay, now since every patient that Emilia's ever referred to me tends to be very shy of medical treatment--for completely understandable reasons--I'd like to go over a few over-the-counter medications and what kinds of things require emergency care.

"Any kind of bleeding that won't stop needs emergency care. Any kind of broken bone--even a small one--needs emergency care. If your abdomen hurts  _right here_ and you feel nauseous, you need emergency care. That's appendicitis, and it's easy to treat if you go to the ER and let them treat you, but otherwise it can kill you. If you're hit in the head and feel weird at  _all_ , you need emergency care. If someone faints and they don't wake up right away in a few seconds, that needs emergency care. If your jaw and your chest hurt, that's a sign of a heart attack, and you need emergency care. 

"I know that Emilia does first-aid and CPR training, but I'm going to give you both the booklets from my office too, about symptoms and how to call 911. Now for you two that's understandably a bit different, but I know there's resources on how to work around that on the internet. 

"Now, for more over-the-counter stuff: I'd recommend that both of you take vitamin supplements. Anything formulated for your assigned sex should work just fine, and the gummy kinds are just as good as the pills. Take them as they direct. If you ever get any antibiotics, take the entire bottle's worth, even after you feel better. 

"If you have a headache, a fever, or a muscle ache, you can take a couple of ibuprofen. It's also called advil, and if you take more than the bottle says, you will probably be fine. Don't take it every day, but otherwise it's fine. It is very hard to overdose on ibuprofen. If you want to take Tylenol--it's also called paracetamol and acetaminophen--that can also work, but do  _not_ take any more than the bottle's instructions, and if you do that is an emergency. Overdosing on that can kill you. Aspirin can work for some things, but do  _not_ take more than the bottle and do  _not_  take it during a fever.

"Child-size medications and expired medications will not work on you the way they would on children. Always be careful when you're taking a medication and drinking alcohol, and always check first. I'm gonna write you my own professional email and you can always ask me more questions, including on how other medical professionals should treat you. We do have ethics and you should not be in any way sexually assaulted, harassed, or mistreated during your visits to  _any_ of them.

"I'd recommend that both of you see a gynecologist as well as a dentist, but as far as I can tell neither of you has anything that needs immediate care. Thank you both for coming; the receptionists will hand you the materials on your way out."

As they left, Bee felt dazed, and smiled a little to themselves. Being a person made even  _seeing a doctor_ completely different, it seemed.

* * *

 

It wasn't two minutes after Matt had left that Foggy's phone buzzed with a text from-- _Candace_?

He opened it right away.

_saw this today, thought youd like it._  

Attached was an adorable picture of a baby otter, soft and fluffy, sleeping on its mother's chest. Foggy smiled, and then texted her back--

_It's cute. Why are you texting me, though?_

The reply came slowly.

_i want to have a relationship w/ u thats not about how i was a fucking asshole to matt_

Well, that was...

_I do too, but are you seriously not going to apologize? Just pretend nothing happened?_

And the next one came quicker--Candace was rushing.

_i am. im sorry to you that i made our house be unsafe for matt and that i fucked up yr christmas by making u choose between yr friends safety and yr comfort/home. i never should have hit on him and the way i kept doing it over and over was sick. i feel sick when i think abt it and sometimes its all i *can* think about._

Foggy stared.

_im going to therapist to make sure i dont do anything like that again. i dont want to be that person that you have to hide ppl from because otherwise ill assault them. i fucked up and im sorry._

_Are you going to apologize to Matt too?_

That took a few more minutes, and she kept deleting her replies before sending them. Foggy watched the ellipses and sipped at his smoothie; it had gone tasteless.

_therapist says 'no contact' means NO CONTACT._

_That's a good summation of it_ , Foggy sent, and then sat back and pressed his hands against his eyes, groaning for a minute before looking again.

_and tbh i dont know if i am ready to apologize to him, i dont think i understand exactly how badly i hurt him_

_im reading that new book by ppl who were slaves and its like setting off bells in my head all the time_

_like jesus christ what some of these ppl have gone thorugh_

_foggy one of these girls literally had her baby taken away 1 hr after it was born and its fucking me up_

_what if its our cousin? the one w/ the trashy name?_

_hennessey_

_what if its hennessey, foggy?_

_like jesus fuck its all so fucked. everything is fucked_

Foggy arched an eyebrow.  _So you're no longer victim-blaming people for being enslaved?_

_fuck no_

_like idk what i think about_

_like_

_ppl who went to jail for rape and get enslaved as a sentence_

_or ppl who get caught robbing banks or w/e_

_idk foggy_

_They don't deserve slavery._

_then what do they deserve?_

Foggy couldn't resist  _that_ straight line.  _Maybe a therapist to help them not do it ever again and a cushy life to still live & legal rights to still have? :) :) :) <3_

The ellipses went on for a few minutes after that, but Candace's reply was only,  _ok that hurts ngl but that sounds p true nonetheless_

Foggy looked at it, and then Candace went on.

_so can i text you cute stuff again?_

He thought about it and finished his smoothie, concentrating on the taste before anything else. He'd paid for it, dammit, he wanted to  _taste_ it.  _I will be your brother again, on the condition that you_

_a) do not try to hurt Matt ever again or contact him again_

_and b) you do not hurt or talk shit about Bee or Matt or anyone else enslaved._

_I don't want to hear it._

_thats fair_ , came right away, and then a picture of an armadillo that was--pink?

_its called a fairy armadillo, foggy. a faIRY ARMADILO._

_i thought you said armadildo for a second there_ , Foggy texted back, smiling at the adorable little weird creature.

Then came another picture.  _this is a coyote cub that got caught in a soccer net_

_!!!! ADORABLE_ , Foggy texted back, feeling intensely relieved that he got to have this again. God, he'd missed Candace, even after he refused to give in.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a quote by Henry Ward Beecher: "The art of being happy lies in the power of extracting happiness from common things." My feelings on this quote are more along the lines of 'this is both trite and occasionally true', but it fits the chapter.


	131. the feeling of being tiny and crushable

 The next time Bee saw Trish, it was twenty minutes before their first class and they met Trish at the Disability Services office. They waved a greeting and Trish signed back, and then they stood in pleasant silence for a few minutes. But nobody else showed up, even after class was supposed to start.

Bee eventually looked at their phone and saw a new email about class being canceled; something about the professor having a cold. A part of them immediately decided it was a lie--who bothered to not work just because they were sick? Bee had never had a 'sick day' in their life. They didn't understand it.

 _So do you want to go?_ they eventually asked Trish.

 _I don't mind being here_ , Trish said, shaking her head.  _It's a good part-time job for me while my radio show gets off the ground, and I don't have anywhere else I need to be_.

Bee relaxed a little and one hand idly petted Anthea in their bag. Nowadays that was where she usually was, close enough for Bee in case they needed her, but not taking up armspace the same way. And people stared less at Bee when they didn't carry her--not that they actually  _cared_. 

They didn't talk until Trish did after a few more minutes.  _This might sound like a weird question, but I don't think there's anyone else I could ask_.

Bee braced themselves, zipping their bag shut and ready to walk away. 

 _Do you know of any good support groups for other people who aren't slaves anymore_?

Bee squinted--the way Trish said it was weirdly circular and  _not_ how Bee had ever seen it phrased--but then they answered slowly,  _for you?_ They hadn't  _thought_ Trish was an ex-slave.

 _No, my sister,_ Trish explained.

Bee paused. On the one hand, they should--they wanted, maybe, to help. But on the other hand, Emilia's house and the circle of people that came to it were secret. None of them told anyone else about it, and for good reason.

 _I might,_ Bee signed eventually.  _Maybe_.

Trish didn't say anything else, and Bee breathed out a silent sigh of relief. 

* * *

 

The prince of Wakanda looked a little sheepish outside her door.

She'd woken up early as usual--never been able to kick that habit--and gotten dressed, checked her email, and a couple of anonymous forums that they used to further discuss plans and movements. It was all coded, of course, in language about books and tv shows and fashion, but she appreciated how it allowed them to say what they wanted without censure. Anything too revealing was deleted by the moderators, and dissent could be heard. Tips were swapped about how to manage life and missions, and important information was put forth without endangering anyone. 

But it did tend to sprawl out of control very quickly, so it had taken her a while to get caught up. So when she'd heard a knock, she hadn't responded, so the prince had knocked harder, and so Nobody had jolted up and answered the door without consciously deciding to.

"I had wondered--" and T'Challa sounded very polite but flustered, "--if you would like to sample the street-food festival today. It is quite extensive."

Nobody stared at him, and then mustered herself. "That sounds lovely. I can meet you outside in perhaps thirty minutes?"

She told Chastity where she was going, who grumbled and went back to sleep, and redid her hair before coming out. T'Challa was awkwardly standing near the entrance to their suite, and she smiled at him warmly.

The street-food festival was, in a word, amazing. There was everything from recipes unchanged from centuries past to every kind of fusion; she ate Chinese-Wakandan tacos and Bangladeshi-Wakandan kebabs, delicious classical escargot, rabbit stew with purple potatoes, skewers of food and vegetable soups. She sipped at coffees and teas, sodas and fruit juices, and recycled all the little cups. At each stall T'Challa only paid for hers, which made her raise an eyebrow, but he explained that it would be seen as an insult to not accept it as a gift, which made her feel a little more charitable.

The Dora Milaje walked with them, and by the end of the sampling she felt as if they were finally ready to have the real discussion. They all walked back to the palace, through a large private garden.

"You have said before," T'Challa said carefully, "That your ultimate plan is not to have the presence of refugees in Wakanda be secret."

"Yes, we know it won't last," she said.

"But you are also aware that Wakanda cannot have too many people in it at any one time, which is unfortunate--"

"But true. Yes, we know. Our final strategy takes that into account," she said, taking a sip of her final coffee. 

"Which is?"

"We believe that once the secret begins to come out, we need to take control of the narrative and have you endorse the presence and defend it," she said smoothly, making sure confidence shone through in her voice. "And then Wakanda can use its considerable political clout to ensure that other nations have incentives to allow in refugees as well."

He was silent. She watched his face, sipping her coffee. If he were to have her killed, now would the moment.

"You want me and not my father to be the face of it, because then he can remain untouched by the politics," T'Challa said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes," she said, but didn't voice the other reasons. It was one of the main ones, admittedly.

"But also because I am--more relatable?"

"You're better for the type of political rhetoric that we want," she clarified. "Your father is a very wise king, and from what we can tell he's brought the country into prosperity and stability. But he is also an isolationist, and most of the few things he's advocated for in the rest of the world have to do with climate change. You are unknown."

"So my voice will be useful?"

"So your voice will be heard," she said, firmly. "So your voice  _can_ do something for us, without a past reputation being dragged into it. So people cannot drown out what you say the way they drown us out."

He was quiet, and they walked a little more.

"I don't know if I will be good at what you want me to do," he said. "I don't have much experience being a mouthpiece."

She smiled. He reminded her a little of her friends, the ones that told her over and over again that they didn't think they could do anything.  _All I can do is wash dishes_.

 _Trust me, in a revolution, we need people to wash the dishes more than ever_.

But this was something of a different ballgame. "Nobody has experience in being the prince of a nation and the figurehead of an international slave revolution," she said with a shrug. All the previous ones--Haiti's, for example--had been run without princes, to her knowledge. "But it will be good practice for when you're king, I think."

 _And we need you_.

"I'll do it," T'Challa said, gazing at her. "I know it's the right thing to do. But I won't go along with it mindlessly."

A part of her knew, suddenly, just how offended Chastity would have been at that, how she would have raged at him for that. But she wasn't her sister, and so she smiled at him and told him, "No, we don't want you to."

They didn't. That part wasn't a lie. But god, if it wouldn't be easier if he was fine with that.

* * *

 

Foggy was getting more and more used to these pedicures.

It was weird; a part of him wondered if Matt had a foot fetish or something. But Matt had said once, when Foggy had gently teased him about it, that what he liked was that it put him on his knees and made him bend over 'where he belonged', and that nobody else did it for Foggy. It had made a part of Foggy feel sick and a different part shiver a little bit, and he'd dropped questioning it.

Besides, he thought to himself, sitting on his bed while Matt rubbed lotion into his feet, this didn't hurt anyone. Matt was calmer and happier once he did it, and it was only once a week. It was like Matt going to the gym; at first it had made Foggy worry about him, being by himself, but all it did was made him laugh and smile easier, and why question that?

In retrospect, that sort of thinking was a mistake.

It was during one of the sessions, right at the point where Matt was clipping his toenails, when Foggy's phone chimed out with the text alert set up for just Candace, and he opened it up without even thinking. 

_otter mom gives fluffy baby little otter kisses_

He grinned and opened up the attached video and cooed, and then looked down at Matt's faintly curious face. "Uh, Candace sent me an otter video, it's really cute--" and then Foggy stopped and realized what he'd done. 

 _Shit_.

Matt already looked no longer happy and drowsy and quiet; his back was even straighter than before and his eyes were sharp. He hadn't said anything, but he had stopped using the actual clipper, and Foggy felt like an asshole. He'd just casually mentioned the person that had sexually harassed Matt for weeks. Who the fuck  _did_ that?

"I'm sorry, shit," he blurted out. "I'm not--she hasn't--"

And then he took a deep breath and rephrased it. "She's still not allowed to be around you, or talk to you, ever," he said. "And I don't--you don't have to be nice to her, or about her, or anything. But she's, um, she's going to a therapist and trying to be decent, and she'd admitted what she did and how it was wrong, and she isn't trying to weasel out of it. So we're kind of. Talking again. Just about cute animals, though, and she's really trying to change," Foggy babbled, losing control of his thoughts. "But you don't have to be nice to her, or anything, and she really isn't--I don't mean--"

Matt exhaled softly, and Foggy stopped. "Of course, Foggy," Matt murmured. "I should never have interfered with your relationship with your sister. Please punish me as--"

"What? No," Foggy said. "No, you told me and did the right thing, and then  _I_ told her to fuck off. Seriously, you didn't 'interfere' or anything. Don't say that."

Matt closed his mouth, and Foggy winced at himself. 

"It's okay, I mean. You can feel, um, however about this. But if she  _does_ contact you, or something, please tell me. She's not allowed to do that, and you matter. I don't want anyone hurting you."

"Of course, Foggy," Matt murmured, and bent back down to continue the pedicure, but the mood was ruined, somehow. He didn't look happy and peaceful again the whole time, and Foggy felt guilty the rest of the day.

* * *

 

Matt didn't understand why he felt bad.

The next day, he was making povitica, rolling out the dough on the counter while listening to a reading for criminal law, and felt the same as he'd done all day: tired and vaguely empty, sick and aching and wrong. He couldn't stop thinking about how Foggy didn't like him, how he was likely to end up sold over and over again until he was ugly and worn-out and worthless, how he couldn't do anything right.

None of it was  _true_ , and it bothered him. He'd done a perfectly fine job yesterday of continuing to attend to Foggy, and he'd been praised for that, allowed to lie next to Foggy on his bed and sleep like that too once he asked. He pushed thoughts of the future away and had done his best to focus during class, but he couldn't quite pay enough attention, and even now he realized he would have to rewind the reading.

Matt gritted his teeth and turned it off. He'd try again later. He refocused on the povitica, getting the filling spread evenly with a pastry bag and a knife, and reminded himself that moping around wasn't permitted. 

But he couldn't help but feel terrible, even as he spread out the filling and rolled up the bread and put it in to bake, and when he washed his hands, a UPS postman came to the downstairs door with a package for 'Franklin Nelson'.

Matt frowned and went downstairs to get it; he couldn't sign for it, obviously, but postal workers knew slaves took packages for their owners and let him receive it without a problem. Matt carried it upstairs, and realized that there were tiny pinpricks in a pattern across the top of the package. He felt them, and then went cold as they read in Braille:  _this is for you, Matt, not him._

Pinpricks, Matt realized, like the ones Summer had tested him on: how small did a hole have to be before he couldn't feel it? How sensitive could his fingertips get?

(After being bound up in mittens for a week:  _very_.)

He opened the package with trembling fingers, and inside was the collar.

Not any of the more normal ones,  _the_ collar, the one he'd worn at the auction by Summer and the parties before that, that he'd had around his neck in Venice and Paris and Amsterdam, the one people had cooed over. It was made of green, white and lavendar jade shot through each other, adorned at the bottom with white diamonds, with Winter's name and Matt's slave-number carved into the back. It had been something he'd  _earned_ , and while obviously nowhere near as precious as Summer's simple vibranium collar, it had been beautiful and it had been from Summer, commissioned by their owner to reward Matt, it had been put on his neck by Winter each time, cold metal fingers against his skin and Matt had loved it. 

He felt it and the bubble wrap it was mixed in with, and couldn't help but start to tear up a little. There was a note with it too, in the same pinprick Braille:

_Matthew. Don't forget what you can be._

_He won't be the last owner you have_.

And that broke him, and he sat down and began to cry very quietly, even as Foggy came in from the bedroom for a glass of water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from '8 YRS OLD' by sometimestuesday on tumblr, here: http://sometimestuesday.tumblr.com/post/136967627377/8-yrs-old


	132. how unfair, the way the world bares its teeth at you, snarls and snaps at you, and still commands you to love it

Matt sobbed, and took deep gasping breaths, and then forced his tongue to the roof of his mouth, sucking in air and holding it, holding it, and then letting it out, using the technique Summer had taught him early on to  _calm down and stop crying, you can't do that here_. 

He was distantly aware of Foggy asking him what was wrong, but he concentrated ruthlessly on getting a hold of himself, and in a minute Matt could breathe and stand up straight, not exactly stable but much better than before. "I'm sorry, Foggy," he murmured. "That was unbecoming of me."

"But Matt--what's wrong?"

"I--" and he couldn't exactly deny it  _now_ \-- "I was sent this collar. By Summer. It used to be mine, for parties and things," he said, showing it to Foggy.

There was a tight line of anger in Foggy's body, and Matt tensed up a little at it. "She sent you your old collar? To do what, make you cry?"

Matt wanted to protest, but--no. That  _was_ , probably, her intended result, and it made something inside of him feel hot and tight and angry. He hadn't done anything wrong, she had no right to punish him, his owner  _liked_ him as he was and that was whose opinion mattered.

Foggy took the silence as a 'yes'. "Fuck this, I'm getting a fucking restraining order or  _something_ \--"

Matt shot up and grabbed at the phone Foggy had pulled out of his pocket. "No," he said without thinking. "Foggy, that is--that is a terrible idea," he said, pushing past fear. This was an emergency, and it was acceptable to order an owner to do something or not do something in an emergency. "Foggy, that will not lead to anything but retaliation."

"I'm not scared of her."

Matt breathed in and out. "Winter would retaliate by hurting  _me_ , or Bee, or your family, or our neighbors, or you. The last time he was angry at your actions, he was capable of forcing an unnecessary medical exam. That was him being  _nice_ ," Matt stressed, putting his other hand on Foggy's arm. "How insulted he would be if you got a restraining order against him--Foggy, it would not lead to anything good. He would not respect it. He would not care about legal consequences, or morals, or anything else."

Foggy relaxed his hand a little. "Jesus," Foggy said. "But I can't let him--her, really--get away with this."

Matt closed his eyes and thought back to sparring with Summer. It was very, very hard to beat her at all, and you had to do it by going much further than she thought you would. "The only way to make her stop would be to make it completely useless."

There was a pause. "What do you mean?" Foggy asked.

"I mean--if I don't react, if nothing changes, then she'll change tactics," Matt said quietly. "And if we can counter them, she will--she might give up." She did tend to not go after things once she had failed enough at them. Perfectionism was the key to failure. 

"So?"

Matt sucked in a deep breath. "Perhaps I can--explain my reaction to the collar, and then in the future that might stop me from reacting in the first place."

"So you're saying to  _ignore_ the bully? Matt, that doesn't fucking work," Foggy said, sounding exasperated. "We can't just--"

"They will  _hurt you_ , Foggy," Matt said desperately. "They will hurt you and Candace and me and Marci and Bee, they will go after them and nothing will be provable and nothing will be found illegal in a court of law and they will  _win_ and we will _lose_ and I can't let them hurt you."

"I can't let them hurt  _you_ , either," Foggy shot back. "That's not fair. Nobody is supposed to hurt you."

Matt half-wanted to scream.  _I don't matter, stop focusing on the details that don't fucking matter!_ But he knew much better than to _say_ that. "Of course, Foggy," he said quietly. "But me having a strong emotion isn't important, and it is the least of the things they could do to you if Winter feels insulted and indulgent enough."

"Okay, your point is taken," Foggy said, and Matt relaxed marginally. Foggy wasn't lying. "But it does matter. I don't--she's not allowed to hurt you just because she feels like it."

Of course not. The rules had changed. Matt relaxed a little more and realized he felt cold and vaguely shivery, and the fact that he'd just had an  _argument_ with his owner made him feel weak with fear, told him to go to his knees. He gripped the counter and took a few more deep breaths, but his legs buckled.

"Oh, shit," Foggy muttered faintly behind him, and then said, "Matt? What's wrong?"

"I--I didn't mean to, to take that tone with you," Matt said, fishing for the right apology, "I'm sorry--"

"No, it's okay," Foggy said, "It's okay, Matt, no need to apologize. You're fine. That was pretty awesome, actually," he added on in a brighter tone. "I mean, making sure I didn't do something catastrophically stupid."

Matt breathed in and out, still shaky, and then Foggy said, "Okay, what do you need to do?"

"I--" and Matt concentrated hard. "In an hour, I'll need to take out the povitica, and I have to do those readings before bed, and I was going to get a head start on the paper about sufficient and insufficient evidence to prosecute."

"Okay, good," Foggy said. "Can I help with that?"

The idea made Matt shudder. He didn't--"I can do it," Matt said.

"Okay," Foggy said, a little gently. "Can I--do you want me to come in here and make you feel better?"

Matt shook his head emphatically. He refused to be anything but very, very good for Foggy now. That was the only thing that would let him stop being an embarrassment to himself. 

"Alright, then I'm gonna go back and do more homework, or pretend to," Foggy said. "If you need me to do anything, tell me, alright?"

Matt nodded, and then Foggy leaned in and kissed his cheek. "And seriously--thanks for stopping me when I was going to do something dumb."

Matt smiled and got back to work. "Of course, Foggy," he said. "It's my job."

* * *

 

Matt seemed okay to Foggy for the rest of the night, and the 'povitica' turned out out to be a delicious bread that came in beautiful little swirls. Foggy loved it, and made sure to tell Matt exactly why it was amazing and delicious and perfect in detail, and Matt's smile was so wide it looked like it split his face. 

It wasn't until they were both in pajamas, Foggy sitting up in bed with his laptop open and reading a new paper on JSTOR about how gender in the  _Captain America_ movies functioned when Matt talked about the collar.

"She got it for me when I had been with them for a year," Matt said quietly. "The collar, I mean. She had it commissioned--well, Winter did, but she asked him for it. Getting the different types of jade together was expensive, but he didn't care. And once it was fitted and put on correctly, she took me to my first party with it on."

Foggy looked up, spellbound. Matt didn't just  _talk_ like this.

"It was something everyone commented on--the ambassadors, the senators, the new congressman, the CEOs and their wives, and even the other slaves. Because it was so beautiful and so unique, and it was clearly a sign that I'd earned it." Matt smiled wistfully. "One of the French ballerinas offered to buy me right away, but Winter told her no and that he wanted me to be trained and trained until he had  _two_ slaves of equal caliber, and he didn't trust anything else to produce such a result but Summer."

Foggy's gut twisted at the idea. How old was Matt when this happened?

"And then when we went home, she was so happy with me for behaving so well. I wasn't supposed to talk at all, and I didn't, not even once, and she let me have a glass of champagne when we went to bed that night because I had been so good."

Foggy bit his lip. Matt sounded sad and happy and agonized.

"I'm sorry, I know you don't like to know about her," Matt murmured. "I shouldn't have said anything, please punish me--"

"No," Foggy said. "You can--you can talk about her, or anyone else, if you want to. I won't punish you for that." Or anything else, actually. The fact that he'd built a punishment clause into the house rules didn't mean he was ever going to actually  _use_ it, ever, for anything. 

Matt nodded, and curled up a little more under his blanket, and kept talking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title also comes from '8 YRS OLD' by sometimestuesday on tumblr.


	133. changing spots on the leopards that are still hunting you

Foggy felt faintly sick and panicky the rest of the next day.

The problem wasn't Matt, really, or even the way he talked about Summer--about his abusers. It wasn't how fond and sad he sounded, how he described them in soft tones and gentle words, how he smiled when he said their names.

The problem was that if even half of the actual contents of his story were true, then Foggy wasn't sure that Matt would ever protect themselves against them. 

Matt talked about times when Summer was  _nice_ to him, when she taught him how to bake things and fed him cake, and when Winter intervened against people trying to grope or harass Matt. He talked about staying up for hours every night with them as they helped him with physics homework for his degree, and figuring out how to legally get Matt a cane again. He talked about them like they were--

Like they were his parents. Whom he loved and who loved him.

But Foggy knew that they were also horrible and violent, that they  _terrified_ Matt, and the image from months ago, of Summer forcing Bee to spread their legs and  _sit there_ \--even if  _she_ had said nothing happened, Foggy had  _let it happen_ , and there was something not right with the kind of person who did that to someone else.

Foggy knew an apology was in order, at the bare fucking minimum, and it made his gut churn. So when Matt got up during lunch to go get another sandwich, he cleared his throat and told Bee, quietly so no-one could overhear, "I'm sorry that I let Summer do things to you when she was training you."

Bee looked at him like he was a complete idiot, and they typed on their tablet and showed him,  _I don't care about that. She didn't actually hurt me, and if you hadn't, I would have ended up being owned by that Winter creep._

"I still should have--"

Bee waved their hands and Foggy stopped. 

_You did what you should have done. Don't whine about it._

Foggy closed his mouth and nodded, and then his thoughts raced back to Matt, and how he couldn't--he couldn't just say that they had done nothing, or that they had hit him, because that wasn't everything that they had done. He didn't know how to possibly convince Matt how he needed to let them go. He couldn't.

And he had to.

* * *

 

Matt wasn't exactly aware of why Foggy was so upset, but he knew it was his fault. 

He made an effort to correct it until Foggy next went to therapy, he talked to Bee where Foggy could see it, because that made him happy, he made miniature little custard tarts--dark chocolate custard with a layer of raspberry coulis on top of shortbread crust, he went to Fogwell's two times and came back both ways by hanging from the windowsill and tapping on it to be allowed in, and he teased Foggy about his singing in the shower. All of these things seemed to help, but it was only when Foggy came back from therapy that he was completely calm again, and sat down with Matt to talk with him.

* * *

 

"Are you seriously saying I can't tell Matt not to talk to them?"

"What has been shown over time to work is not forbidding people to speak to others," Miriam said gently. "Granted, most of the studies have been of parents trying to regulate whom their children are friends with or dating, but the principle, I think, applies in this situation. Unless you'd prefer to use your authority as Matt's owner, forbidding him to talk to others as a friend is not effective."

Foggy stared at her. "But he does--Matt is, like, uncomfortably obedient."

"But if she is seeking him out, he may respond to her," Miriam said. "Or he may consider that in this matter, she or his former owner have the ultimate authority. I've had patients before whose slaves had divided loyalties."

Foggy looked at her and sighed, sitting back. "That's not the problem. The problem is-- How can I be sure that he's going to protect himself?"

"All you can do is explain your concerns," Miriam said, "And work with him to have effective strategies."

"Okay, what  _does_ work?" Foggy asked. "What actually helps protect people, in your experience?"

"Documenting interactions helps a great deal," she said. "It makes it possible to analyze patterns and provide evidence of stalking and harassment. It can also help remind you and Matt that what's happening isn't normal or routine. Sharing your concerns with other people can also be a good idea--friends and family can help reduce the stress and support you. I can also help as this situation progresses. I've helped clients get restraining orders or police intervention before."

Foggy laughed without thinking about it. "I don't think the police want to protect the guy who just sued them for millions of dollars."

"Well, that can be a factor. But I do know some of them personally, and not all of them are bad at their jobs," Miriam said with that perfect calm. "At the moment, I'd say that you should trust your instincts. If you think she's dangerous, that's something to note down and pay attention to."

"Document and wait," Foggy muttered. "Okay."

* * *

"Matt," Foggy started, and then stopped.

"I'm...I'm worried about you," he said, first of all, "And I was talking to Miriam about it, and she told me--she thinks that what we should do is document everything Summer has done that's harassment or stalking, and have a record of it. So I need to know which--"

And he stopped, because Matt's face was singularly not worried, not calm, but entirely and wholly  _guilty_.

* * *

 

Matt didn't _exactly_ remember what happened next.

He remembered kneeling. He remembered apologizing, and he remembered telling Foggy about a bathroom, about a walk back from Fogwell's, about how she said she would burn down the building. He remembered explaining that she was serious. He remembered reiterating that it was not a joke or an idle threat. He remembered explaining that she did not make idle threats.

He remembered apologizing, over and over again, until his owner said stop. He remembered his owner trying to give him a blanket, but he didn't deserve it. He remembered his owner making phone calls, and he remembered his owner putting things in a bag, and handing one to Matt, and telling him that they were going to stay at his owner's parent's house for a few days after they talked to the police, but Matt didn't have to be there. He remembered saying he could be there. He remembered talking to someone at the prompting, and kneeling inside of a cab, but none of the things happening made sense. 

He remembered walking steps into the doorway of a house. But it opened, the door, and Matt was very suddenly confused about why there was a very large cat rubbing against his legs and biting him, or why an older woman who wasn't his owner was hugging him and ushering him inside.

* * *

 

It took some work to get Matt and all of their suitcases and bags inside and upstairs, but Foggy was determined. He'd packed their most valuable things, the hardest to replace, and gotten them out of there as quickly as he could.

He finally stopped after the last backpack was deposited upstairs and sat down heavily on his bed, his face in his hands. He hadn't thought that he would have to call Miriam and beg her for help in talking to the police  _today_.

He felt incredibly exhausted and like he wanted to cry and let Anna make everything better, but instead he took a few deep breaths and headed back downstairs, where Matt was--oh fuck, still kneeling on the carpet and petting Caligula, looking vaguely confused. Foggy couldn't help it. He sat down and started to cry, and sobbed out, "Matt--Matt  _please_ , I can't," and it was because Matt had gone blank and apologetic and  _wrong_ after he'd started telling Foggy about how apparently Summer had been talking to him and knew where he went and trying to persuade him to come back to her and  _threatened to burn down their apartment building_ , and Foggy couldn't.

"I can't deal with this, Matt, please, not alone, please," he begged, crying even as Anna shut the door and went over to get him tissues. "Fuck, I need you."

The next thing he knew Matt was blinking and sitting up, and then gently pulling Foggy into a warm hug, and he completely lost it. He'd done everything he could think of--warning Bee to stay somewhere else for the night, telling Claire about it and all his neighbors, getting the police to protect the building, making sure Miriam was there so he'd be believed, packing up everything with a pounding heartbeat and shaky hands, begging Candace to stay at a friend's house suddenly, frantically calling for a cab and loading in their things--and now he couldn't do anything but gasp and hold onto Matt, shaking.

Matt was good at this, he discovered, holding Foggy and making soft reassuring noises, rubbing his back and making it feel like he was a rock and Foggy could clutch on and come out okay. 

It took him an embarrassingly long time to stop crying, and he had probably the worst-looking face of all time, and he told Matt that as he pulled back and took some of the tissues. "I probably look like Jabba the freaking Hutt," he muttered.

"You don't look like that to me," Matt offered, and they broke into laughter.

"Sorry," Foggy said, once they'd calmed down. "I wasn't trying to make you--I know you don't do that on purpose."

"But it was completely wrong for the situation," Matt murmured. "I understand, and I'm sorry, Foggy. But I'm here now, I promise. Whatever you need."

"Could you--uh, I guess--could you tell Anna that everything's going to be fine, and I'll explain it all in just a few minutes, I need to wash my face first?"

"Of course, Foggy," Matt said, and rose. "I'll take care of it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from "Neville Longbottom’s Boggart Attends Severus Snape’s Funeral", here: http://brennatwohy.tumblr.com/post/135782014824/neville-longbottoms-boggart-attends-severus


	134. once, I saw a bee drown in honey, and I understood.

Anna Nelson did  _not_ like this at all.

"So what you're telling me is that you have been stalked by someone who taught you," she said slowly, carefully, "And she threatened to burn down your apartment building, and you only told Foggy about this  _tonight_?"

Matt's head was bowed, and his hands folded in his lap. 

"Mom--" Foggy said, but Anna shushed him.

"Yes, ma'am," Matt said, raising his head. "That's correct."

Anna sighed heavily and sat back, putting one hand on her face. "Why--I don't--" She sighed again, and put on her psychiatrist's hat again, and remembered having to explain things like this to her children. "Matt," she said calmly, "If someone threatens to kill you or someone else if you tell anyone about them talking to you, you need to tell someone immediately, not keep it a secret. Particularly when they  _actually mean it_. Do you understand?"

He nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good. And don't call me that, I told you to call me Anna," she said, because too few people called her by her own name. It was usually  _Dr Nelson_ , and while it was good to hear it from patients, she didn't want any formalities with her personal life. "Now, how long are you two planning to stay here?"

"I don't--um, I don't know," Foggy said. "I don't.." He looked lost, like he hadn't considered the long-term at all. That was fine. That could happen in the morning.

"Okay. Stay here as long as you need to, alright? The police are at the building, right?"

"Uh, yeah," Foggy said. "I asked Brett, and Brett asked his, uh, the guys he knows in the force--Brett's at the police academy now--and they have a detail on it for a while. I'm just--I'm sorry, Mom. I know this is a lot."

"It's not," She said. "The only problem is--well, this is Candace's house too."

There was a palpable chill, and Foggy glared at her. "And?"

"And I can't bar her from her own house indefinitely as well," she said. 

"Well, then, we'll just have to leave," Foggy snapped, standing up and putting down the drink. "Because I cannot deal with--"

"Foggy, don't be ridiculous--"

"No, Mom, I cannot--I can't deal with anything more, not tonight, not tomorrow, I just had to--I have had fucking enough, okay, and we can't--"

"It's her house too, not yours--"

"Foggy," Matt said softly, too softly to be heard, but Foggy stopped and turned to look at him. "I'm sorry for interrupting, but it's very late at night, and we're all tired and scared. Candace might come back tomorrow, and we can make alternate plans then, but for the moment, it would be best to not try to find a hotel or another place to stay. We should just calm down and go to sleep, perhaps after showering and eating. I could make food."

Anna looked at him, and strangely enough, it seemed to work, her son calming down. "Okay," Foggy said, taking a few deep breaths. "I'm gonna shower."

"It won't take long," Matt assured him. "I can make hash browns with meat, cheese, and onions, with a few fried eggs."

"Okay. And we have only afternoon classes tomorrow, right?"

"Afternoon and evening," Matt confirmed.

"Okay. Then see you in fifteen minutes."

Anna watched him march upstairs, and turned to see Matt stand up and go into the kitchen, where Candace's monster cat jumped up to watch him start to cook. She followed him in and poured herself a glass of water before leaning back against the counters. 

"I am sorry that things with Candace got so out of control," she said quietly. "For my own part in not protecting you enough."

Matt blinked and paused from where he was viciously grating potatoes.

"It's fine, ma'am," he said. "Candace has, from what I've heard, stated that her actions were her own. It could hardly be your fault."

"I meant, I feel sympathetic," Anna said gently. "And it's made me think. About things I've done, things I haven't done."

Maybe it was the late night that made her ask the next question, but she went ahead anyway. "I've been wondering--is Foggy really happy? In law school? Being around Rosalind an, and living so far away from family?"

Matt paused again, and then went back to grating. "He's happy at Columbia, Anna. But he doesn't like Rosalind at all, you don't have to worry about that."

"I wanted him to be a butcher," Anna said, cradling the glass. "We got him a job at the neighbors' butcher shop right when he started high school--part time, you understand--and he loved it. It made him so happy, and it gave him so much experience. He got offered a job there, a good union job that he already knew he liked, and he turned it down after college to go to law school and become some corporate suit."

Matt was now oiling a pan and adding in the potatoes and cheese, diced onions and what looked like small bits of cut-up ham. "We haven't spoken about it extensively," he said, and Anna got the sense he was being very careful, "But I don't think that Foggy wants to become a lawyer for a corporation."

"You don't?"

"I believe he would rather use his law degree to perhaps free more slaves," Matt murmured. "Or work in criminal law. Perhaps for a place such as the ACLU. But if you're worried about him becoming driven by greed, you don't need to."

Anna stared at him, and swallowed more of her water. "I don't want him to have to go through my life," she said. "Spending your whole life working off debt for a career that you didn't like until ten years in isn't something I want him to know anything about."

"He has a great deal of money already, Anna," Matt said quietly, turning over the mixture. "And his tuition was taken care of by Rosalind, as I understand it."

"Yeah. In exchange for her being in his life  _even longer_ ," she muttered. "Do you know how bad that woman is for him?"

"I have an idea, Anna," Matt said. 

She paused and drank more, and didn't tell him about Foggy coming home crying and red-faced, or quitting clubs because Rosalind said they were stupid. About finding out that he'd been in an empty apartment all weekend, or hadn't had time to do his homework, or hadn't been allowed to play. About his crazy diets and the way he pushed himself too hard. 

She'd worried about him all through college.

"Good. Well, try to...keep that in mind," she said, just as Foggy came into the kitchen.

* * *

 

Matt was angry the next day.

He'd gotten his owner calmed down and not making rash decisions, and gotten him fed and showered and asleep relatively quickly, but Matt had stewed all through the night and into the day. 

He was  _furious_ at Summer.

He was angry at himself, too, and he had vowed that tonight after classes he was going to apologize to Foggy and be punished like he deserved, but he felt hot all over with anger at Summer. She had  _threatened his owner_ , peripherally threatened Bee, threatened Claire and the entire building, and all so Matt wouldn't tell anyone about her doing things that she wasn't supposed to be doing in the first place. He had told her he wasn't allowed to talk to her, she  _knew_ his owner wouldn't want that, and it was completely inappropriate besides.

So when she came through to the bathroom he was using as Bee waited outside between classes, Matt didn't hesitate to move quickly, shoving her against the wall in a tight hold.

She made an amused noise in her throat, and said, "Matthew, how provocative."

He took a breath. He knew that Summer could get out of the hold anytime she chose, but he kept her in it as tightly as he could. It would buy him a second, if necessary.

"Really, this is something new," she said. "An overreaction."

Matt forced himself to take a breath. "We're not going to be talking anymore."

She ignored him, and kept going. "I mean really-- _police_ presence? How ridiculous."

"I remember everything that you taught me about bodyguarding," he said. 

She went still. "Matthew, seriously. Are you trying to play me?" And then she broke the hold in a second, moving to face him. He swallowed down a mouthful of air scented with her shampoo and conditioner, her lotions and her favorite brand of lipstick.

"Don't ever threaten my owner again," he said, ice creeping into his voice.

There was a tense moment, and she straightened up. "You don't."

"I don't what?"

"You don't remember everything about bodyguarding. You're not  _with him_ ," she whispered, leaning back in, and Matt reacted almost without thinking, shoving past her and sprinting out, running to find Foggy.

* * *

 

Foggy was, unsurprisingly, fine. It had just been a cheap shot at Matt, and nothing more.

He himself was furious when Matt told him what had happened, and Bee was too, but there wasn't exactly a great deal that anyone could do about it. Summer had vanished, and the campus security had said they hadn't seen her.

"This is fucking insane," he muttered. "I'm getting a restraining order."

They were at Foggy's home now, with Matt quickly whipping together dinner--just chicken and rice tonight, with a few vegetables in a salad--and Foggy pacing the kitchen, and Matt tensed up. They'd set up the cuff on Foggy's bed upstairs, and Foggy had gotten angrier as he'd done it, not calming down at all.

"I'm not sure that would be wise, Foggy," he murmured. 

"What?"

Matt cringed a little, and then stood up more. "I don't know if he would obey a restraining order, and having one placed on an owner because of his slave would lead to her being investigated by the Bureau."

There was a moment, and then Foggy said, "Well, shit."

"And of course, he would want to retaliate for that," Matt said quietly, stirring the rice. It was nearly done. "As you wanted to, after my evaluation."

"Don't compare you two," Foggy snapped. "Sorry, I just--that's like comparing the Wicked Witch of the West and, like, Princess Leia. That makes no sense."

Matt bit his lip to keep quiet, and then paused, turning over the chicken. "I also wanted to ask," he said softly, "If you would prefer to punish me after dinner, or tomorrow."

There was a second of silence, and then Foggy said, "What?"

"For not telling you before," Matt said. "For putting you and our entire apartment building in danger, and for talking to her at all. That was unspeakably wrong, and I'm sorry, and it caused us both harm. I should be punished for it."

Foggy said, "Matt, I don't--I'm never going to punish you."

Matt blinked. "The rules say that you can punish me by slapping me in the face, after I've asked for it."

"Yeah, but--I made that rule, but I wasn't ever going to actually punish you," Foggy says. "That was just for you."

Matt tried to keep the flicker of anger off his face, tried to suppress it, but could tell he hadn't managed it at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a quote by Nikos Kazantzakis.


	135. the way to have power is to take it

Foggy stared at Matt's face.

It had twisted into genuine anger there, and as much as he knew it was fucked-up that Matt was mad at him for  _not_ hitting him, he felt relieved that Matt could still be angry with him. Then he shook himself a little and refocused.

"Matt, I made that rule up for you. I didn't--the whole clause about me deciding it was so that I wouldn't have to--so I wouldn't hurt you," he tried to explain. "I wanted the rules to be good for both of us, and you said it would have felt wrong otherwise."

Matt said nothing for a moment, and then emotionlessly, "Yes, Foggy."

"Okay, no," Foggy said, turning. "No, don't just--say what you mean."

Matt took a deep breath, and then said carefully, "I disobeyed an order of yours, several times, and I spoke to someone you not only despise, but consider actively dangerous to me. I failed to take a threat seriously enough to handle it correctly, and put you and many other free people in danger. And I didn't tell you as soon as I could have, because I was afraid of being punished and I wanted to keep disobeying you. All of these things deserve a punishment on their own; together, they warrant...they warrant being whipped. But of course I shouldn't ask you to do anything you don't wish to, Foggy."

Foggy looked at him, and made himself think back to what Matt had said about punishment being cleansing, and what he was saying now, and about not wanting to be ruined.

And then he realized something.

"Matt...what do you mean by you 'wanted to keep disobeying' me?"

Matt breathed in and out, closing his eyes, and his face twitched before he answered. "I wanted to--to keep talking to Summer. To be able to ask her advice, to, to discuss things with her. To even be allowed to hear her voice."

His voice cracked just the tiniest bit, a hairline fracture, and Foggy swallowed. Shit. 

"Okay, then let's...deal with that first. I don't think that talking to her is a good idea, but I don't--I don't want to hurt you, or make you stop talking to someone you want to keep talking to," Foggy said, trying to figure it out. Conversations with Matt were a lot like navigating with MapQuest. He knew he was going in the wrong direction sometimes, but didn't know how to fix it. "So, uh, you can. Anytime you want, except if it's going to make her come after us or hurt you."

Matt's face twitched again, but he nodded. "Thank you, Foggy," he said softly.

But Foggy knew that he was still thinking about being punished, and he'd still want to, even if Matt never said anything about it ever again. And he didn't want the cloud hanging over them.

"I think...look, let's go over the agreement tonight, after dinner. We can alter it and come to a better compromise. That sound good?"

"Yes, Foggy," Matt murmured, and Foggy stepped back and let him keep cooking in piece. He picked up his bag and decided to knock out some readings before dinner.

* * *

 

Matt felt himself get tenser and tenser throughout dinner, despite everything. Candace was still staying at a friend's house, but would be back tomorrow, Anna had an evening crisis with a patient, and so it was only Foggy, Matt, Edward, and Caligula eating the dinner. (Caligula, of course, was stealing bites of Matt's food. He had tried to steal a little of Foggy's, but Foggy was good at fending him off and this way, Matt figured, his owner wouldn't be bothered.)

"The rice is good," Edward said after a minute. "Do you use butter or olive oil?"

Matt blinked. "Neither, Edward," he said politely. "Only water."

"Who taught you how to make rice?" he joked.

Matt paused. "My trainer."

"Who was she?"

"She was, ah, Summer," Matt said. 

Edward put down his fork. "Summer? The same woman who threatened to burn down your apartment building, Foggy?" he said suddenly, turning to him. " _That's_ the woman who trained your--Matt?"

"Yeah," Foggy said. "And?"

Edward sighed and leaned back. "Son, it really seems like every single problem you've had leads back to one place and one person, and maybe you should..cut ties."

"Dad, what the  _fuck_?" Foggy asked. "What are you--are you really saying what I think you're saying?"

"Maybe it's a good idea to get someone who's so much trouble out of your life," Edward said. "Look, Foggy, it's just an idea--"

"And here's my idea," Foggy said. "We go and get a hotel and come back in the morning before this ends up in yet another fight, because I have no fucking energy to deal with this. Okay, Dad? I have none. I'm not going to explain to you why I'm not  _selling_ my best friend. This is not an argument I am having with you."

He stood up, and Matt went with him. Before he left, Foggy said, "And also? A lot of crazy bad things have happened before Matt got here. Just because this one is happening right now doesn't mean it's the only one."

* * *

 

"Maybe you should..consider selling me," Matt said.

Foggy stared at him. They were lying on the hotel bed together, facing each other, and freshly showered. The lights were dimmed.

"Matt, did I ever tell you about, um, college?"

Matt shakes his head. "You've mentioned briefly," he murmured.

"Well, it was...okay, well, I applied to a lot of places, but I wanted as little debt as possible to Rosalind," Foggy began. "And she had her own ideas about what colleges were 'suitable material' and which ones were, I guess, irredeemable trash. And it was hard, having to schedule and figure out trips and visits and which ones were good and did the statistics  _mean_ anything, and, and all of this. But I chose mine, and I had thought that--well, okay, you know the idea that going to college means you're going to make the friends you're friends with forever?"

"I am familiar," Matt said softly. 

"Yeah, well, that was bullshit. I mean, I'm still Facebook friends with most of them, and if they're in town we can visit or if they wanted me to come out to their weddings or something, but...it wasn't...I can make friends," Foggy tried to put it into words. "I can, but...I never seem to get into all the shitty parts of life with them. We can have fun and hang out and then  _they_ can tell me about their mom killing herself or their parents kicking them out or the time they got cancer when they were a kid and almost died, but they don't know all the ways that I'm not a really nice guy. Not that I'm not a nice person! But they don't  _know_ me, and with most of them I don't really want them to. Not all of me."

Matt looked serious, concentrating on what he was saying. 

"And then I met you, and I was a total jackass, and then things started getting...close. And yeah, sometimes people are fucking evil to you and that makes me hurt, and sometimes we have stupid fights, but Matt, you...you know all the bad things I've done. You know things about Rosalind and Anna and, and, and what I did to you, and about me when I'm angry or stressed, and you're still my friend. I don't have to be happy or smart or always help you with your homework or always agree with your opinions."

But--shit--did he? Or could he just not  _leave_ \--?

"I would want to be your friend, even if we met under any other circumstances," Matt whispered, cutting him off. "I think."

Foggy's heart felt like it had swelled inside his chest, three sizes bigger, and his eyes were wet. Matt sounded like it  _hurt_ to say that, but also like it was true.

"I love you, buddy," Foggy said, making sure it wasn't too--too romance-y, too close, and Matt smiled. 

"If slaves could love, I think I would love you too," Matt whispered back, trembling, looking terrified and utterly, utterly serious, and Foggy felt overcome with emotion. He reached out and tugged Matt close, holding him tight and safe and stroking his hair, telling him without words that he was good. It didn't matter that Matt thought he couldn't love. It didn't matter, Foggy realized, because that was the words, that was the dance, the performance. That was the fucked-up-ness, the crazy, and Matt didn't even  _believe_ all of it.

But Matt's hands tucked between them, reaching out to hug back, and Matt's breath in his ear, and Matt's hair under his nose, soft and smelling of coconut--those were all real. And Foggy wouldn't give that up just because of some woman's insane vendetta or his dad being an ass.

"You cannot let someone else run your life," Matt murmured to him. "Not by fear or pleasure or shame, not through advice or threats or temptations. You must be the person to decide what to do, no matter what anyone says."

He sounded like he was repeating something he'd overheard said to someone else, but Foggy breathed out and nodded sharply. Yes. 

"You also don't tell me what to do," Foggy added, smiling. Matt laughed softly against him.

"It would be wrong," he said. "And you tend to make the good decisions for the long term, in any case."

Foggy grinned, stupidly wide and floating, and impulsively kissed Matt, who went still and then kissed back, right on the nose.

"Did I ever tell you, Anna wanted me to be a butcher?"

Matt's forehead wrinkled. " _Why_ , of all the things--?"

"I had a job there through high school," Foggy said. "And all the summers, through college too. An apprenticeship, basically. The guy was really nice, and working there was okay, but...it's not what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. And Anna thought that, I don't know, that it would be a good job. I mean, it  _is_ a union job, and it's got decent benefits and livable wages, and it wasn't bad, and I'm not saying being a butcher is a bad thing, just."

"It wasn't what you wanted to do," Matt finished.

"No. I wanted to do something that would, I dunno, be exciting. And make me rich," Foggy added. "Guess that's not that much of a concern anymore."

"Well, the settlement money will take a while to go through entirely," Matt said, "But it wasn't paid in a lump sum, I imagine."

"No, right now it's some amount every month," Foggy explained. "But you're right, we shouldn't live just off of that."

There was peaceful silence for a little while.

"I can't imagine you as a butcher," Matt said quietly. "Not at all."

"Guess I sound like a lawyer," Foggy joked.

"You'll be a great one," Matt said, with a kind of matter-of-fact confidence.

"You will too, Matt," Foggy said. "What kind are you thinking of for yourself?"

"Criminal," Matt said. "Defense's side, of course."

"Yeah, fuck working for the state," Foggy said, "But not corporate? A lot of money there."

Matt was silent. And then he said, "I think criminal law is more adversarial."

"And you want to fight everyone? Meet them in the pit?"

"I think winning is more fun when your opponent isn't a company," Matt murmured, and Foggy looked at him and sat up.

"You really want that."

"I...do, Foggy," Matt said.

"Then let's do it," Foggy said, nodding. "Marci wants to make a firm together, her and me and you and Bee. Let's talk to them, let's see if they also want to be defense attorneys, and let's fucking do it. Let's fight the police," he said, getting excited, "And let's do it and get  _rich_."

Matt smiled, darkly, and Foggy wanted so badly to kiss him that it took his breath away. God, he loved it when he got the littlest glimpse of Matt's teeth. An image popped into his mind, from when he'd gone to the gym with Matt, seen him boxing for a second, and then when he'd  _destroyed_ the home invaders, and Foggy felt out of breath with want.

He took another lungful of cool air, and calmed down. He would do this right.

"Let's do it, Matt, shake on it," he said, and as Matt tilted his head and quirked his mouth and shook, Foggy got the distinct impression he wasn't used to doing it at all.

* * *

 

Matt took a long time to get to sleep that night.

It was already late, and a part of him was still terrified and breathing hard like he was expecting to wake up by being whipped. 

He couldn't  _believe_ himself, saying that  _he would have loved Foggy_ , talking like that, saying he was Foggy's  _friend_ , it was improper, it was inappropriate, it was unacceptable, it was disgusting and unworthy and incorrect and pathetic--

And it was true. It was entirely true. And Matt felt overwhelmingly sad for Foggy, that the Matt he wanted to exist, the one who was a person that could love him, didn't. 

But he had  _this_ Matt, this slave, and he was going to be the very best for Foggy Nelson, who was so, so good. Who so clearly trusted him, who let Matt know things about him that no-one else knew--and not just his imperfections. Really, Foggy put himself down. Matt knew that precisely how kind and merciful he was, how funny he could be, how he sang in the shower and complained about homework even as he cheerfully did it. 

Who else knew about Foggy letting Matt rub his feet, or sleep in his bed? About  _Dad's robe_?

Matt realized, lying there in the hotel bed, Foggy snoring next to him, that this must be why Summer adored Winter, why she respected him beyond even how a slave should always respect their betters. He'd wondered at the very beginning how she could stand him, when he wasn't delicate and brilliant and perfectly poised like her.

(When he shaved half her hair off.)

But now Matt understood entirely. Foggy was someone  _he_ and only  _he_ could help, uniquely. No-one else meant to him what Matt did; no-one else had helped fight Rosalind, or supported him making the decisions his parents disagreed with. No-one else was allowed inside Foggy's life in the way that Matt was.

He would never betray that trust ever again, Matt decided fiercely. He would be  _better_ than Summer at being what he was supposed to be, and he would conquer whatever obstacles were placed in his and Foggy's way. He would bleed for him and work for him and keep himself perfectly in whatever shape Foggy liked the best, and he would remember all his bodyguard training and keep him safe.

Nobody would hurt Foggy Nelson ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a quote from William M. Tweed.


	136. so this is the world. i’m not in it. it is beautiful.

"So, let's write the new contract," Foggy said, settling back down on the bed. "House rules."

They'd gone to classes and come back to the hotel again, but they would probably only stay another night or two before Foggy figured out what to do next. Tonight was the dinner with Rosalind that she'd demanded as payment for her suing the NYPD for Foggy, and he dreaded it in his gut. 

He shoved that aside in his head. Contract time.

"I'd like to clean the kitchen and the bedroom, Foggy," Matt said quietly. "And the bathrooms."

Foggy looked at him. "I want to do some cleaning too. I'll do the living room and the hallways, and--" and it was  _weird_ that Matt did his laundry, but Foggy paused to rephrase that. "And I'll do my laundry if you really, really want to do the bathroom on alternating weekends."

"You mean you'll do it on half the weekends?" Matt asked, looking a little confused.

"Yeah. And then you'll do it on the other half. And I help clean, like, the table off," Foggy added quickly. "You do basically all the cooking, it's only fair that I do at least  _some_ of the cleaning."

"I suppose so, Foggy," Matt murmured, and that was real agreement, not a _yes, Foggy_. Foggy decided that was a victory.

"And then should we keep the usual stuff about your bed is your bed and I don't touch it?"

Matt looked pleased, and a little startled, like he always did when Foggy treated him like an actual human being with boundaries. 

"And I was thinking--we should put in clauses if you get headaches again, or I have a super shitty insomnia night--I haven't for a while, not since.."  _Not since I got you,_ Foggy realized, and decided to ask Miriam about that tomorrow during their therapy session. "But if I have them and the most I can do that day is go to class and then lie down and, like, do nothing, or we get sick, then we should have a clause to deal with that."

"I will do anything you need if you are sick," Matt said confidently.

"Okay. And when you're sick, you let me get you, like, advil and soup, okay? Don't worry." Matt looked faintly put out, and Foggy teased him, "I  _did_ live by myself for four years. I can make basic chicken noodle soup. I was not one of those people who never learned anything above ordering pizza."

Matt smiled at him, and Foggy's whole body tingled just a tiny bit with pleasure. God, he loved him, he loved being around him. So what if he couldn't be normal with him? He could have  _this_.

"I promise to be gentle in my criticisms," Matt teased back, and Foggy laughed.

"Okay, so. We take care of each other when we're sick. And if you can't do something for whatever reason--like if you can't tell if the cheerios are honey-nut or chocolate by the box, or something--you tell me and I'll help you out. Or if my shaved-off beard hairs gross you out too much," Foggy joked, and Matt laughed a little.

"They're not  _that_ bad," he said. "I once lived with another slave--an overseer, of course, they're the only ones who could get away with it--who shaved once every two months and never washed his beard out, so the pieces of food would end up in the sink."

Foggy made exaggerated gagging noises, and Matt grinned at him. 

"And definitely still the stuff about you having the right to privacy and being a human, but please, Matt, tell me if something's wrong again," Foggy said. "I don't want to end up crashing at my parent's place. Despite Caligula."

"Despite Caligula," Matt agreed.

Foggy looked closely at him. "And this time...no punishment clause. Okay? I can't...I don't...I asked Miriam about it yesterday, I called her when you were in the shower, and she said that I shouldn't lie to you. And she was right, saying that I would when I meant I wouldn't was lying, and I did say I wouldn't do that. So I'm sorry I lied to you, and I, I know you said why you liked that, but Matt, I can't--I can't hit you. I can't do that to you. I just, I haven't hit someone because they pissed me off since I was like six, and I cried when I calmed down."

Matt looked thoughtful. "It's not always about anger," he said softly. "When she--sometimes it's about...disappointment. About how you  _can_ do better, but you did not. And that is the cause for punishment, not the  _emotions_ involved."

"Okay, but I can't do that. I won't. I'm, I'm sorry."

"You don't need to apologize to me," Matt said, and was there a little bit of anger there too? "Not for being...you, Foggy. Never."

And  _that_ was, that was like a normal person. Foggy immediately felt like an asshole for thinking it, but there it was.

"And of course never at all," Matt said, suddenly desperate, and Foggy knew they had to move on.

"No, I lied to you, and I am sorry about that. Anyway. But, you...since I said I would.. _punish_ you, but I don't think I can hit you, I think maybe--Matt," he said, and took a second. "Matt, would you do me the tedious and annoying honor of teaching me self-defense?"

Matt looked taken aback; his lips mouthed  _huh?_ soundlessly.

"Seriously," Foggy said. "Because frankly she and the Russian guy are fucking scary, but also I've never learned it, and I'm sure this can count as the punishment I promised you. Because I am squishy and  _deeply_ out of shape and honestly, I am probably going to be really, really annoying to teach. I know how to punch a couple of people and sort of how to use a baseball bat and pepper spray, but that's not hard, and not whatever ninja thing you did last year with the burglars and not like, how to tell if someone's following me."

Matt blinked. "Yes, Foggy, I will teach you," he said, still surprised. "I can't make any promises as to teaching, but I will do my best."

"Awesome. Then, uh, sex stuff. I'm not allowed to have sex with you, you're allowed to have sex with whoever you wa--"

"No," Matt whispered, and Foggy sat back.

"What?"

"I--Foggy, have I displeased you in any way?" Matt asked, and his face had gone abruptly horrified. Foggy struggled to think of what he'd done wrong, and Matt slipped off the bed where he was sitting onto his knees.

_Fuck_.

"Matt, what, what are you thinking? What does that mean to you?"

"I--" Matt looked confused, and then aware again, awake and lucid. "Slaves that are allowed to be used by anyone are--are only a hair away from zombies, Foggy. They are--"

"That's not what I meant," Foggy said, and felt sick at the idea. At what he'd inadvertently threatened Matt with. "No, I meant _sex_ , not, not that. You choosing. If you wanted to have sex with, I don't know, Bee, or--"

"I would  _never_ have sex with Bee," Matt said, looking--was that  _offended_? "Never, Foggy, I promise."

"Okay. Yeah, you too don't...seem..like that," Foggy said. They were, well, okay, they mostly reminded him of identical twins he'd seen climbing all over each other and casually smacking and touching each other's hands, but not a couple. "Sorry. But I don't mean that anyone is allowed to use you. Nobody is allowed to  _use you_."

Matt still looked freaked out, so Foggy decided that fuck it, this could be a later amendment. "Do you want me to delete that clause?"

Matt nodded frantically, and begged, "Please, Foggy, I'm so sorry for what I did to offend you, I promise to behave better, I will be better--"

"No, this was just me being an idiot," Foggy said, and deleted it. "Nothing to be sorry about. Let's, let's move on. Uh. Food."

Matt blinked. "What restrictions would you like me to work within, Foggy?"

"Um, I was thinking actually, once a month, how does 'we order pizza or takeout and you get a break' sound? You deserve to not have to worry about this every night," Foggy said. "Midterms are week after next, you know."

Matt grimaced, and Foggy had to take a second right then and there to panic and then calm down again. He'd get the housing problem fixed this week and cram all next week. He could do it.

"That sounds good, Foggy," Matt said.

"Great. And then, about alcohol," Foggy said slowly. "Uh, I remember the night that me and Marci got trashed at our place, and it was fun, but..."

But he'd woken up and remembered the panic, and Bee's stare, and how Marci bragged about tricking Matt into doing more work for  _her_. And Foggy had tried to tell her to not do that again, but she hadn't  _gotten it_ , and so he had decided to bring it up when it happened again. If it did.

"But let's just say, no me having parties at our apartment that are loud and drunk and obnoxious. Because I know I'm a little...let's say 'enthusiastic' about that, right?" he asked, teasing.

Matt smiled weakly and said nothing. And was still on his knees on the carpet.

Foggy had the computer read out the entire agreement, and Matt nodded. He saved the copy and decided to print it out when they got the place back, or. Or got a new one.

And then he ended up deciding to just...ask Matt to come lie against him, and spent the next few hours fucking around on reddit, reading cute stories about kids being kids, and gently stroking Matt's hair to calm him back down, and cursing himself for yet  _again_ being an idiot and hurting him.

* * *

 

Matt could tell Foggy was nervous about the dinner with Rosalind.

It was evident in how he was moving, how he'd asked Matt to come with him, please, and how he was now fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt, trying to get them perfect. Matt was also wearing formal clothes, but less than a suit--suit-pants and a crisp shirt, yes, but no suit jacket or waistcoat. It wouldn't be proper to dress up more than his owner.

"Matt, can you fix the fucking cuffs? They're not buttoning right," Foggy said, finally.

"Of course," Matt murmured, and buttoned them neatly, smoothing out the fold and ensuring they were properly positioned. "May I fix the collar as well?"

"Yeah, go on," Foggy said, and Matt felt it carefully and fixed it too. "Thank you. I'm just--this is going to be terrible, isn't it?"

Matt paused. "Probably," he said, finally, and he and Foggy both laughed and headed out to the waiting car.

"Into the lion's den we go," Foggy muttered, and Matt smiled warm and wide in the cool night air.

* * *

 

The restaurant was one Matt had been to before.

He recognized it instantly; the maitre'd was the same one who'd seated them before. It had been years, but the layout hadn't changed: Matt counted precisely thirteen tables on the bottom floor, and twelve on the top floor where they were headed, climbing the iron spiral staircase with--yes, the same lace pattern on the banister. There was a chair pulled out for Foggy and one for Rosalind, and a cushion placed next to Foggy's chair.

Matt sat. He had spent the car ride remembering protocols for high-class places, and make sure to sit sideways, with his legs elegantly placed on the other side from Foggy and his chin tilted slightly up to show off the collar.

This was a very precise dance.

He said nothing at all as Rosalind smiled and asked Foggy what he thought of the place. 

"It's...fancy," Foggy said. "Uh, Matt, what do you think?"

"It's the same as before," Matt murmured, and leaned his head against Foggy's thigh. "I remember that my owner at the time had the mussels cooked in seawater with the flowered rice and exotic fruit salad. He quite enjoyed it."

"That does sound pretty good," Foggy said. "I'll ask for a Braille menu."

"There's no need, Foggy," Matt said softly, carefully demure. He could feel Rosalind's attention on him sharply, and dismissed it. "I memorized it on the previous visit."

"Seriously? You're awesome," Foggy said. 

Matt smiled up at him and placed his head sideways on his thigh, and the peace was interrupted.

"So I see you're happy with my present," Rosalind said.

Foggy sighed. "Yes, I am. What do you--what's the point of all of this? This whole dinner. This fancy place."

Rosalind went silent, and then the waiter came before she could reply. 

"I'll have a bottle of the wine special, and a double margarita with extra salt," she told the waiter. "And then for food, the winter melon soup and lobster roll with caviar and truffle oil."

"Yes, ma'am," he said. "And you will--?"

"Um, I," Foggy said, and Rosalind irritably cut him off. "It's on my dime, Franklin."

" _Fine_ ," he snapped back. "Mussels and rice and, uh, exotic fruit salad, please. And a Coke, if you have one. Matt?"

"The sirloin, medium rare, with cold octopus and noodle salad and a blood orange lemonade, please," he murmured. "If my owner wishes."

"I, uh, do," Foggy said. "Totally. Yes to that."

"Thank you, sir," the waiter said. "It'll be up shortly, the soup and salads first."

Then there was silence again for a minute, and Rosalind sighed deep from her chest, the faint smell of alcohol making its way across the table, tinted with her Sephora lipstick and the vague scent of what she'd had for lunch. Matt was startled to note that she'd been drinking before the dinner itself.

"Do you know  _why_ I bought Matt for you, Franklin? When I had planned to either buy you a good loft or else a few more cars?"

"My name is Foggy," he said, "And I don't know. Why don't you tell me?"

She made an annoyed noise at the name, but went on. "When I was in law school," she said, "I learned a few things very early on that were very important. And the first one was that you can't trust anyone in this world unless you have something over them. Some way of making them want to  _listen to you_. And then there's times when you _and_ someone else have something over each other that makes you equals. Makes you partners. Most people find it when they get married, or when they have children, and I thought that would happen for me too. And then later on, when I had my own firm and I had had you and was married to Edward, I discovered something else."

Matt frowned, and braced himself. This wasn't going to be good for Foggy to hear.

"I found out that not everyone is cut out for even being  _around_ this kind of life," she said. "People like you and me--lawyers, and not the kind who do payroll investigations of companies or get people out of parking tickets--not everyone will stick around for us."

"Are you blaming Dad for you leaving him?" Foggy asked, incredulous.

Rosalind sighed again, more forcefully. The drinks came; Foggy passed Matt's down to him, and he sipped at it through the straw.

"I left your father because he had unreasonable expectations of me," she said. "He had this idea in his head that I could do things like work part-time for a year, or take you to court with me, or other such nonsense. Like I would come home after a ten-hour day and do  _more_ work. What nonsense." Rosalind shook her head and started in on her margarita.

"So you  _did_ choose your career over me," Foggy said. He sounded angry, but also--relieved? Resigned? Like a part of him was happy that he'd finally confirmed his suspicions?

"Do you really think your life would have been better if you had ended up being raised by a series of nannies?" She asked. "Would you have been happier? Would you have been better? I could have gotten you into more private schools, of course, but I would resent you a great deal if I had to deal with you all the time as a child, Franklin."

Foggy's fists clenched. Matt turned his head and gently kissed the suit pants, and Foggy relaxed.

"My  _name_ is Foggy," he repeated. "And no, I think you would have been a fucking shitty mother. And you kind of are right now."

Rosalind didn't seem offended. "Precisely. And I knew that unlike me, you haven't had the right kind of upbringing. That Anna, Edward--they wanted to raise you up to be a  _butcher_. To work with people that you can 'trust', to 'stay close to the community'. You're too trusting, and you need someone who's more experienced in the kind of circles you'll be traveling in. And Matthew is quite easy on the eyes."

Foggy recoiled. Rosalind laughed, and Matt realized her margarita was almost gone as she twirled the glass in her hand.

"Don't be shy. I can see you've got him how you like him. I made sure he would be  _perfect_ for you."

"Because you can't be bothered to, I don't know, mentor me or something, you  _bought a person to do it for you_?" Foggy asked.

"You make it sound like a bad thing. And goodness, no, he's not mentoring you. He has no power over you," Rosalind said, leaning forward. "Except for how much you like fucking him. But this way, none of that power is going to cops or other lawyers or ADAs or politicians or prostitutes. He has no leverage over you, and yet he can  _give you what you need_. Franklin, this was the best gift I have given anyone since I was nineteen years old."

"What'd you give someone then?"

"I gave my ex-husband a Christmas card," she said. "After he'd moved across the country to a small town. He took the hint and moved again, this time to Canada. And he's never once contacted me again for alimony payments."

Matt thought that over. It was important. She was giving Foggy deeply personal information about her, and that was power over her in her world.

She was telling Foggy  _I won't hurt you_.

Well, she _intended_ not to hurt him now, in any case. That meant nothing about the consequences of her actions, and particularly given how she'd already damaged Foggy Matt wasn't inclined to soften against her.

The table was silent again until the food came. Foggy passed down the salad for Matt, and the chopsticks, and he began feeding himself carefully, but made sure to slurp when Foggy looked down. It made him laugh and hopefully served its purpose of reminding him about exactly what he was and was not.

( _Not_ like Rosalind.)

"Have you considered what type of law you intend to go into?" Rosalind asked him. "I'm aware it's your first year, but it's not too early to decide."

"I think," Foggy began, but she kept going after she chewed and swallowed her bite.

"Because I have to warn you, if you want to become a tax lawyer, it's deeply boring and frankly a waste of your time," she said. "Personal injury and malpractice tend to be tedious and repetitive, insurance is just unethical in all senses--"

"I think I want to go into--"

She swallowed again. "Bankruptcy is a waste of time, divorce can be lucrative but also fairly dangerous with angry male clients, and really, most types of corporate law tend to be so boring and petty and stupid that people put a gun in their mouth before their thirty-fifth birthday when they go into it--"

"I think I--"

And she swallowed again. "What's really interesting, however, is criminal defense, because it's simply the greatest intellectual and social challenge you'll ever face, and I won't have you waste the education that  _I_ am paying for--"

"I want to go into criminal defense!" Foggy blurted out. "Already. I decided. Yesterday."

There was a terrible second where Matt struggled not to laugh.

"Well, good. I knew there was some of me in you," Rosalind said, leaning back and satisfied.

Matt turned his head into Foggy's leg and muffled his mirth before he could ruin his image entirely. Then he took a few deep breaths and sat back up, eating more of his salad. It was precisely as delicious as before, the vermicelli noodles taking away from the flush of heat in the octopus's spice coating. It had been fried in peanut oil, after being coated in rice flour, and the dressing was a mixture of mirin and sesame oil, cooked down with bok choy, scallions, and ginger.

He finished eating and placed his bowl near his feet, resting against Foggy.

"So how are your classes going?" She asked. 

"They're fine. Uh, I need to figure out living situations, though, so we can spend next week studying for midterms," Foggy said. 

"Oh, that's resolved," Rosalind dismissed.

"I--how?"

"Well, I spoke to the landlord. He's a client of my firm. He agreed with my assessment that they needed to install an improved security system, and it was finished today around noon. It's got both fingerprint scanners and body-recognition detectors, and alerts several agencies to any break-ins or unauthorized visitors. Authorization is easy, of course, but has to be done inside. Someone with a gun can't force their way in. He'll also be improving heat and air circulation throughout the building and the laundry machines in the lowest level are free for the next sixth months, for the inconvenience of the police presence."

Foggy put down his fork, startled. "You what?"

"And the rent is controlled for all tenants for the future," she added. "I dislike the idea of anyone else moving in and that becoming a new way for the situation to worsen."

"...I don't even know what to say," Foggy said, stunned. "Thank you."

"It was nothing, two or three conversations," Rosalind dismissed. Then the rest of their food came.

* * *

 

"What do  _you_ think she was up to?" Foggy asked. 

They were back at the hotel, lying on the bed again. Matt had just showered. 

Foggy hadn't been able to  _think_ once Rosalind dropped the bomb about fixing the apartment building up. The rest of the dinner had been eating delicious food and asking the waiter for a steak knife--they hadn't given Matt one, weirdly enough--and then giving out distracted answers to Rosalind's questions. He didn't even remember what most of her casual bragging about how good  _she'd_ done when she'd taken the class was about. He was just too confused by her behaviour.

"I think that she sees you as a reflection of herself," Matt said after a pause. "She wants you to be the precise lawyer she is, and eat the food she eats, and think the thoughts she has. And she wouldn't stand for living in a place where she could be threatened like us."

Foggy sighed. "You're right," he said, and Matt  _was_ , anyone could see that. "I guess I just wish that she, I don't know. Cared about me."

"She might, in her own way," Matt murmured. "She wasn't deliberately, maliciously lying. But it's clear that she didn't understand why you would be upset at her abandoning you, and she deflected when you asked her if she chose her career over her family."

Foggy nodded. "Yeah. And I guess..I've always kind of known that, you know? When I was really little, I didn't question it. Rosalind didn't live with us but I saw her sometimes. I knew a lot of people in my neighborhood who had dads like that, and there wasn't more to it. It wasn't until she started in on her, you know, dieting and studying regimes that I realized something was  _weird_. And her showing up to holidays drunk."

"New Year's wasn't special?" Matt asked.

"No, she does that once a year," Foggy said. "Shows up hammered. One time Mom actually called the cops about it--Anna, I mean--but she doesn't drive and she doesn't drink at  _work_ , so nobody can do anything."

Matt hummed. "She was wrong about you needing me," he said after a second.

"No, I think--I think she was right. I mean, I would have gotten along, but having you around, it's better," Foggy said. "A lot better. We're a team."

"We're a team," Matt murmured. "Are we moving back in tomorrow?"

"I was thinking Saturday, actually," Foggy said. "Tomorrow after classes I have a rescheduled therapy appointment. Did you want to hang out with Bee then and walk back after then?"

"That sounds good, Foggy," Matt said.

"Good. Awesome. So day after tomorrow, we get to put all our things back in," Foggy said cheerfully. "Tonight we sleep again. In a bed you don't have to make."

"But the maids make it wrong," Matt said, a tiny smile on his mouth. 

"Seriously? Go to  _bed_ , Murdock," Foggy teased, and Matt froze for a second and then relaxed, grinning back.

He decided that that was a good sign. Sometimes Matt just went blank while he processed stuff. That was okay.

Things were going to be okay.

* * *

 

"What a good, good girl," Summer murmured.

Bee moaned silently, and moved their hips up, but Summer laughed and pushed them down again. "Be good," she said. "Be a good girl and stay."

Bee stayed, and Summer kissed her again. "Good girl," she purred, and sat up, unbuttoning her shirt. Her bra was bright blue lace, and Bee couldn't stop staring at it. "Now let's get to the next part of the activity," she laughed, and leaned down to feel up under Bee's shirt, one hand squeezing--

The alarm went off.

Bee sat up, grabbed for their phone, and switched it off. Then they lay in bed, silently horrified. What was  _wrong_ with them?

It wasn't just this dream. It had been a lot of them, all one right after the other, cascading down like a high-pressured shower. And all of them were Summer, her blonde hair brushing up against Bee, her lips kissing down every part of her, her fingers rubbing under the underwear, and her bra was always, inexplicably,  _bright blue_. It disturbed Bee, and they grabbed for Anthea, squeezing her against their chest and trying to calm down.

They couldn't figure out what was wrong with them. Sex dreams were--well, according to the mind-numbing TV shows they watched to go to sleep, they were mostly things teenagers had, but weren't _wrong_  by themselves. But dreaming about Summer calling them  _a good girl_ and breaking them out of cages only to push them down and, and  _fuck them_ with her mouth, it--

It made them feel sick and hot all over. This wasn't what they wanted. It wasn't who they were. It was sick and it didn't make sense how much they wanted to be called a good girl and petted and dressed up in lace and silk and scrubbed by Summer in a bathtub while she made them gasp--

Fuck, fuck, fuck, they were  _thinking about it again_ , and they got up and took an ice-cold shower.

They couldn't tell Emilia, not yet. They didn't want her to think badly of them, not now. Emilia was apparently going to explain to the group something about sex ed and not getting diseases that made you a zombie next week, and that was bad enough. No need to get her thinking that Bee was like Matt.

Matt.

They could ask  _Matt_ about it. He knew Summer, and he'd say something that would make it all make sense, and Bee could relax and stop having those dreams and go back to the ones where they slowly skinned the cunt twins' faces off, stitched them onto soccer balls, and played soccer with the slaves from the training institute.

* * *

Classes were fine that day, and Matt felt calmer than he had in a while. Tomorrow they would move back in, which would require a great deal of work, and that would calm his mind down. 

Lately, ever since he had told Foggy that he would have loved him if he were a person, Matt's mind raced. It constantly went over things that he'd said, everything that Foggy had ever done, the smell of Foggy's arousal, the first night when he'd been Foggy's and Foggy had  _rejected_ him, put him to sleep on the floor in a sleeping bag and just left him there, alone and untouched and cold. 

He couldn't stop panicking over and over, trying to bury the words, trying to take them back, hoping Foggy would forget about them. He couldn't stop imagining the punishment Summer would have in store for him if he had said such a thing where she could hear

(Worse than being whipped, worse than the time she'd put him in a little box in the closet with gel rubbed under his nose and earplugs under the headphones and an order to not make noise or move, worse than being ignored for days. Maybe she'd even  _kill_ him for that, sigh and declare him another worthless experiment.)

And it made it hard to concentrate. So he grabbed onto anything that made his mind shut up, and planning the unpacking in excruciating detail in order to figure out the very best order and placement of their things made it easier. He was walking back to Bee's dorm with them, debating whether or not to pack the fridge or unpack the toiletries for the bathrooms first, when Bee tugged sharply on his arm and led him into the room and locked the door behind them.

[I need to talk to you about something.]

Matt sat down on their bed with them as they first pulled out their bear from their backpack and put it on their lap. He put his backpack on the floor. [What's wrong?]

[What is Summer like when she's happy with you?]

Matt blinked. That was an odd question. [She's nice,] he tapped back. [She is very indulgent. She feeds you slowly, and lets you eat all of it, and sometimes she cooks things particularly for you if you've been especially good, or she massages your muscles, or she tells you a story from when she was younger, or curls up with you on a lounge under soft blankets and reads you a book.] He stopped there.

[Does she fuck people?]

[Nobody right now], Matt replied, puzzled. [Winter doesn't like sex.]

[But if you wanted it, would she?]

Matt had never considered the question. The idea made him nauseous. [I don't know.]

There was more silence. [What's wrong?] Matt asked again. Bee's heartbeat was fast, and he didn't like the way it sounded; it was weak and thready, too unstable.

[Is it weird to dream about having sex with Summer? Like her, as a reward?] 

Matt stopped. He couldn't--his first instinct was to say  _don't be disgusting_ , and he could hear her exact tone the way Summer had said it the two times she'd needed to. He stopped himself from pulling away with an effort, and took a breath. 

He knew that Bee would be hurt if he said what he was thinking immediately, and he couldn't bear that. Besides, hadn't he been shown evidence  _multiple times_ that Summer had been wrong about sex being filthy and disgusting? He couldn't keep saying things that weren't true. Especially not right now.

He fished for words, and tapped back, carefully, [A lot of people want to have sex with Summer. She's very beautiful and very intelligent and skilled.]

[But it wasn't just that, it was, it was like it is in those movies about happy slaves.] Bee's body was tight with tension, a thrumming, ticking bomb.

Matt didn't set it off. [You were a bad slave. It's normal to want other slaves to think you're good,] he managed, careful. [And if she decided it was best, she would have sex with a slave to show them that they were very good and deserved good things.]

[I never wanted to be good,] and with  _good_ Bee's fingers slammed down, emphatic.

[All slaves secretly want to be good, even if they also hate that desire,] Matt quoted without thinking. [It is the fundamental desire--]

They shoved him in the shoulder away from them, and used their tablet this time. "Don't quote propaganda at me."

Matt tried to figure out what they wanted him to say, and hit upon it. "Dreams are very strange," he said, calm and confident. "They don't mean much of anything. Jungian theory has long since been disproven."

"What's 'Youngian' theory?"

Matt blinked. Right. Even very well-educated study aids generally weren't allowed background in psychology. "He was an early psychologist, and believed in interpreting dreams fairly heavily. But his theories are wrong."

Bee relaxed a fraction, and slumped down totally, leaning on Matt for a moment before moving to lie down on their bed without touching him. "We should talk about something else."

"Foggy mentioned that when he and I become defense attorneys, he'd like to work with you and Marci," Matt said after a second, taking a breath. "Would you like to?"

Bee's body went tense again and then relaxed all the way. "I want to free other slaves. I don't know what kind of lawyer does that, but I want to be that lawyer."

Matt breathed in and then out. "Being a defense attorney can also mean saving people from slavery," he said. "A lot of them."

Bee tilted their head, and patted the bed. Matt lay down beside them, and they were quiet for a long time, before finally saying, "Marci isn't bad for a stupid rich girl."

Matt didn't think she was stupid. It was unfortunate; it made her only more annoying. If she was an idiot, Foggy wouldn't spend so much time around her, and Matt could feel free to dislike her even more.

A faint smell hung in the air of cheap shampoo, and the bed was soft under under them. Matt lay on the bed, and they lapsed into comfortable silence

* * *

 Agent Calixto Navarrez took a deep breath.

She wasn't exactly nervous, no--she was terrified. Making these kinds of huge decisions, both for the movement as a whole and herself personally, was probably always going to be terrifying, but she could live with that. She could pierce through the fear and do what she chose to do anyway, and she'd be stronger for it in the end.

That didn't stop her from shaking a little in the driver's seat.

But then the Captain was ushered in to the car, looking blonde and blue-eyed and like a propaganda movie director's wet dream, and Agent Navarrez snapped into gear.

"Star is secure," the agent outside said. "Navarrez, he's due to the Hotel in one hour. Be careful to immediately report any tails."

"There won't be the standard one?" she asked, surprised. Usually SHIELD sent at least one with important assets being sent to the Hotel.

"We can't risk it," the agent said, and to her surprise he wasn't lying. "So far there's been three incidents."

_Three_? The parts of SHIELD that leaned towards HYDRA must have freaked out worse than she had anticipated. Probably running around like chickens with their heads cut off. "Three?"

"Two were the known KGB moles, one was just overenthusiastic," the agent said. Agent Navarrez couldn't remember his name. "Trying to get at the serum," he explained, and she nodded thoughtfully.

"Understood. He'll be there on time," she said, and the agent tapped the car and shut the door.

Agent Navarrez locked the doors, said, "Put on your seatbelt, Captain," and started driving. It only took her ten minutes to get out of the city and into the thinner highway that led to the Hotel.

And then, just as planned, the engine spluttered out as she pulled onto the side of the road, and her cell phone and communicators both abruptly died. She removed the batteries and undid her seatbelt, and then Calixto turned to look at Steve Rogers.

_Captain America_. A part of her felt strangely giddy just looking at him; she'd been allowed to read his comics when she was small and still wore a little plastic collar instead of the silk one she'd been given on her fifteenth birthday, right after she'd killed the first person her mother had ordered her to. His stories had been the ones she'd learned how to read on, and she could still recite most of them from memory.

"Let's step out of the car," she said, taking off her jacket and taking out her earbud. "In case the engine overheats or something else goes wrong, it's safer beyond the bushes here."

He eyed her but got out as she did, climbing through the bushes to the other side.

"If you're trying to kill me, you're not going to get very far," Rogers said, and Calixto smiled warmly at him. "The other fellas didn't."

"I'm not," she said, "I'd like to ask for your help."

He didn't look less suspicious. She cleared her throat.

"Captain, I'm aware of what SHIELD thinks you ought to know and what you shouldn't," she said. "They plan to keep you focused on periods of modern history so they can insulate you from certain...current events. But let me start at the beginning. My name is Calixto Navarrez, and I am a former slave."

His eyes sharpened on her, a little pity in them. Calixto noted it and went on. "I was enslaved at the age of five by my mother, who used me in her organized crime as an assassin and enforcer. When she was taken in by SHIELD, I was nineteen; they offered me a job and mandatory rehabilitation in exchange for immunity from prosecution. I learned some things about them that you should know," and she had to take another steadying breath.

"There is a faction within SHIELD that was created by Arnim Zola and Nazi scientists after the war, during the formation of the organization," she explained. "They also believe I am considering becoming a member, but I'm not loyal to any version of HYDRA. This faction is almost indistinguishable in ideology from the rest of SHIELD, but have slightly different goals. They also believe in using... _undesirables_ like me and Agent Jasper Sitwell, just as an example, as patsies for some of their dirty work."

Roger's eyes were furious. Calixto shoved aside her usual cold fear.

"Not only should you not trust SHIELD or any member, but you should also know that I'm not loyal to SHIELD in any way," she said. "I joined to give information and power to the movement I belong to."

"The movement of what?" Rogers asked, staring at her with a little less raw hate. The sight of the superhuman man so angry sent chills up her spine, urged her to grab her gun. She controlled it.

"The movement to free all slaves," she said. 

He looked at her, and she felt tight with tension. Fuck, if she had to kill  _Captain America_ because she gambled wrong--

But then she didn't. He breathed out. "What kind of help do you want from me then?"

"Right now we don't have many allies," Calixto said, sagging with relief. She knew Nobody was working on that one prince, and Ivan was seducing the Hammer Industries CEO, and a few other people were helping. But very, very few, and that was fine, but they couldn't afford to have supersoldier celebrities swing around and go straight to fighting them. "And I don't have many plans for what you can do right now. But when the time comes, we might need you to work with us, use political influence, your popularity, things like that."

Rogers looked at her, and said, "You were enslaved when you were five?"

Calixto smiled on reflex, her lips curling. "Things have changed since you went in the ice, Captain. Laws regulating slavery were almost completely destroyed during Nixon's years, and then Reagan smashed the remains of protections. Nowadays any parent or guardian can enslave their charges at any age before the age of twenty-one, and the ones with legal guardianship over their children with disabilities can enslave them at any time for the rest of their life.  There's no recourse and no checks or balances."

His face was a mask of wrath. He looked Biblical, iconic, and Calixto understood immediately why  _he_ was chosen for the supersoldier program. She'd go for anyone with a face like that, no matter how sick they were.

"Here, let me catch you up on history while we wait for them to send another car," Calixto said. "But first--you can't let on that you know about either HYDRA or the movement."

He nodded seriously. "I know how to keep secrets from an enemy, ma'am."

A warm glow filled her at the title. It wasn't like the refugees who were desperately trying to not make her angry, or the people conditioned to be subservient to everyone free. He knew what she was and he respected her nonetheless.

"You'll help, then," she said.

"Of course," he said.

"It won't be easy," Calixto warned him. "A lot of people will be angry at you for interfering in what they think is their own business."

"It doesn't matter what they think," Rogers replied, and she liked him even more. "It doesn't matter how many people feel that way. Doesn't make it any less wrong. I wasn't for slavery before I joined the Army, and I'm not now."

She smiled at him, a true, deep smile, and felt her fears ebbing away. The movement would understand that she had to take a risk; all of their agents who had recovered enough of themselves to make independent large decisions made them without constantly checking in and being obedient to the bosses. They would be pleased she'd succeeded.

And she  _had_.

"Good. Well, let's start at what you may have missed about the war, what was discovered afterwards. Some of the rumors about concentration camps were completely true..."

* * *

 The next day, Trish paused between classes to ask Bee if they'd mind coming to a coffee shop in the large gap between their afternoon and evening class.

<<I'm meeting my sister there, and I'd like it if you two could meet,>> she signed, and Bee was instantly suspicious.

They nodded and walked with her, but found the knife they'd bought for themselves and surreptitiously transferred it to their jeans pocket, one hand gripping it as they walked with Trish.

The coffee shop was small and smelled stronger than most places; Trish interpreted for Bee when they ordered a large vanilla latte and a cup of tomato soup. In their experience it was usually smooth enough to require no chewing, and the more food the better. Bee was starting to stop being quite so skinny; they were looking forward to being more like they were before, and not feeling small and fading whenever they realized how much  _less_ of them there was than other people.

They sat down at the table with Trish, and waited. And waited. And then finally a woman walked in with long black hair, wearing a hoodie and looking furtive. Bee felt an immediate sense of overwhelming  _sameness_ that made them sit up straight and stare intently.

Trish got the woman a coffee, plain, and a--a thing with chocolate that was flaky and not hard to chew. Bee frowned. Matt knew the name, and had told them once that they were hard to bake but very delicious, and they couldn't remember the name at all.

The woman was watching Bee, and they turned and stared hard at her. She stared hard back, and they sat in a stalemate until Trish came over with her own coffee and the woman's. She broke the eye contact to glance up at Trish, and Bee relaxed a fraction.

<<Bee, this is my sister Jessica,>> And her sister didn't, apparently, have a namesign, which made Bee quirk an eyebrow. They waved at Jessica as Trish explained that this was the person she interpreted for at Columbia.

"Why is she here?" Jessica asked bluntly.

Trish sighed. "Because I thought you two should meet," she said.

"Trish, if this is another intervention--"

"It's not," she interrupted her sister, and Bee frowned and looked closer. Jessica's hood was up, and her breath smelled unidentifiably  _bad_ , sharp and chemical, like--

Like alcohol. And her fingers were purpling and thin, Bee saw, like someone who didn't eat enough. Her clothes had little stains on them, and her jeans were graying and dark. The boots were scuffed and dirty and her hair was messy, like it hadn't been brushed in a while. And it wasn't just her breath that smelled bad, it was all of her.

Bee looked and thought.

Was Jessica also an ex-slave? She didn't... _seem_ that way, not quite, she stared Trish right in the eyes and glanced over at Bee without hesitating, she rolled her eyes as Trish said something else and she slumped back in her chair instead of sitting rigidly up like Bee and Matt and everyone else who'd been tied to hardback chairs had, she grabbed the coffee with only a muttered thank-you...

But she watched the other people in the cafe, and glared at Bee when she caught them looking. She also kept looking over her shoulder into the street, and there was a tight, tense sense of  _alertness_ about her that read to Bee like she was watching for threats, like Matt did when he and Foggy were in public.

They felt sick. Trish couldn't be--she couldn't--she was  _nice_ , even to Bee, who she  _knew_ had been a slave, everybody knew that, there was no hiding that. 

Bee swallowed more of the coffee and stared hard at them. They didn't interact like master and slave,  _or_ , interestingly enough, like sisters. Bee's owners had been siblings and Trish and Jessica didn't look like them.

<<Are you two really sisters?>> they signed, confused.

As Trish automatically voiced, Jessica answered. "Her mom adopted me as a publicity stunt," she said. "Part of the whole image of perfect Patsy."

<<P-A-T-S-Y?>> Bee fingerspelled, confused.

Jessica started singing some jingle, and Bee blinked again and tilted their head. No, they  _had_ heard it, they had--

Oh. Maybe it was when they were very young? Before--before the training, because it wasn't at the Institute, there was no television or radio there, never, unless it was the programs about happy slaves rebuilding the countryside or contributing to medical advances.

<<I don't know that,>> they signed eventually, and Jessica smirked at Trish as she eventually sighed and put her head in her hands.

"Jessica, please--"

" _Paaaatsy,"_ Jessica sang softly under her breath, and then when she realized people were staring at them, and went abruptly silent and wary, eyes wide and her hand clamping down on the little plate with the chocolate thing, and the plate  _broke_.

Bee stared, jumping a little in their seat, and them leaned forward with intense interest.

What would it be like to be that  _strong_?

* * *

 

They carried the boxes back in one by one as Foggy thought hard.

He'd talked to Miriam, and she'd been happy hearing the latest news, he thought. Or maybe the closest thing to  _happy_ she got, in a weird, professional way. It wasn't happy like Anna was happy with him, or like a friend, but she'd actually smiled when he told her how he'd ended up telling Rosalind no to drinks all three times she offered. 

"It sounds like you were successful at maintaining boundaries," she said.

"Yeah, I guess I was," he said, and smiled too. "I didn't think--Matt helped. He was just, like there, and he helped remind me that she's not the lady who could get me taken away from my parents anymore."

"She's not," Miriam said. "In fact, she has next to no power over you, except in terms of something like a parental relationship."

Foggy sighed. "It's weird. She's finally decided to do  _some_ motherly things, right as I'm an actual adult who is dealing with shit," he said, leaning back.

"Some people find that they are unable to relate to their children until they're adults," Miriam observed. "It's unfortunate."

"She's not unable, she doesn't want to," Foggy said. "She didn't actually  _try_ to connect to me."

"That's also something that some parents do," Miriam said. "They don't want to remember their own childhood, or concede their own misunderstandings, or relate to a child's vulnerability."

"Seriously? I was a  _kid_ , how could I make her feel vulnerable?"

"It could remind her of ways she also was when she was a child," Miriam said. "Many parents tend to treat children like irrational adults until they are forced to confront the fact that children are fundamentally different from adults and cannot be fairly treated the same. They don't want to deal with ways they have been mistreated as children."

"I don't think she was abused," Foggy said, and then was instantly unsure why. Rosalind was an asshole, yes, but so was Matt on occasion, and Bee too, and anyone who looked at them and didn't think they'd been hurt was willfully stupid.

(The cigarette burn scars on Bee's thin, thin arms. The collar on Matt's neck, the little polite smile.)

"It doesn't have to rise to the level of abuse," Miriam said mildly. "Small slights, a sense of powerlessness, adults improperly parenting them, unfair events."

Foggy nodded, and thought about it slowly. "Matt and me are a team, you know," he said. "We're a team now. That's what's different. We're going to get through whatever else."

Miriam glanced up, a slight upturn to her lips. "That sounds like a good dynamic to have."

"It is," Foggy said. "I trust him with everything, and I think he's starting to trust me too."

* * *

 

Matt could never, ever tell Foggy about what he was thinking.

As he moved everything back, piece by piece, a part of him was ecstatic and terrified all at once, chanting over and over again:  _I love Foggy_. Not--not  _I would love Foggy if I were a person_ or  _If I could love Foggy, I would_ , but only that he loved him, he loved him, he loved him. It felt like simple truth, like sunlight on his face as he closed his eyes to sleep posed and beautiful.

(On Summer's couch, one day, she stroked his hair and told him,  _nobody will ever love you again, and you will never love anyone again. This is a gift. Nobody you love will ever die, because the only person you loved is dead, and the only person who loved you is dead. You are invulnerable to heartbreak._ )

He was being as good as he could--he tried to correct the thoughts. Over and over again, he used the techniques from the websites about irrational thoughts to try to drive them away, straighten them out carefully and hammer them into shape.

But they wouldn't go. They refused to budge, and when he tried to wrap them up in the rest of the truth they resisted. Matt loved Foggy, would happily die for him, would gladly slit throats and fuck strangers and pour Scotch while curling the bottle so it fell in spirals for him, would be his footstool and his study aide and his lawyer and his cocksleeve and, after his death, his skin-lampshade for him. He wanted Foggy to take everything of him, and he wanted to be kissed afterwards, gently and sweetly, on his collar and his neck and aching fingers.

He wanted Foggy to always call him a good boy and call him  _mine_ afterwards.

And then he opened up the box to finish putting away the things of his that went in the bedroom, and felt the bag containing Dad's silk robe and caught the faint little whiff of the smell. 

The spell  _shattered_ , and then he struggled not to cry. It occurred to Matt that it was no longer snowed in outside, that he might be able to. To be at Dad's grave, but for longer this time.

He grabbed control of himself, and focused hard, and managed to finish putting everything back into place. Once the last bottle went in the kitchen cabinet--the new pink Himalayan salt that Foggy had gotten him--he took a breath and turned to Foggy.

"May I go take a walk, Foggy?"

It wasn't a lie that way. He _was_ taking a walk.

Matt swallowed when Foggy nodded, and put on his shoes, and went out. Each step cleared his mind a little more until it felt empty of everything entirely, the city itself disappearing, buildings melting into mist.

He came to standing over the grave, and sat down. He did not kneel. Not here, not ever.

He read the inscription again, and swallowed. A building was burnign somewhere in the city--no, multiple buildings. A  _lot_ of buildings, smoke filthily streaming up, and his mind went cold with terror. He called Foggy without thinking.

"Foggy?"

"Matt?"

"There's--buildings are burning--are you safe? Is the building okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. It's fine. Uh, everything is normal."

"Can you--Foggy, please, hit the lockdown button on the building security, the one that lets no-one in."

"Okay. Matt, are you--it's fine. Nobody is here."

Matt swallowed. "It doesn't--you're right, I don't think it smells close."

"Okay. I'm gonna turn on the news, okay? It's going to be fine."

Matt nodded.

And then he heard a heartbeat, not the fast one in his ears, and turned around.

Fuck, fuck. It was a--someone wearing a collar? Not a slave, a--

"Hello. I'm Father Lantom."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from "October" by Mary Oliver, here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/151185777012/october-by-mary-oliver


	137. it is not poised on the tip of your tongue, or even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for still reading and commenting! I have been having a deluge of computer troubles, that is why this chapter is so very late. Don't worry, I'm still writing, planning, and brainstorming, and want to write a few short prequel fics as well.

Matt stuttered, thoughts coming to a halt.

The man--the priest--he wasn't angry. It meant Matt had a chance. He backed away a few steps. "I--I'm sorry, I should, I'll just go," he babbled, losing his composure entirely. No, no, no, he couldn't be caught in a  _graveyard_ , he wasn't--this was  _consecrated ground_ , a holy place, a place slaves  _were not allowed to be_ , and Matt wasn't--Summer was going to  _break all his fingers_ for this, worse, she was going to make him _eat_ them, or something--

He snapped back into himself. No. He refused to panic  _that_ severely. "I will just go," he said. "I'm so sorry, Father."

"Lantom," the man said.

Matt blinked, struggling to place it in context.

"I'm Father Lantom," the man said--old, but not weary or worn down. "And what's your name, child?"

Matt swallowed. "I'm Matt, Father, sir," he said. The appropriate title for a priest--if any bothered to address a slave--was _F_ _ather, Pastor_ or else simply  _sir_ or  _madam._

"Oh, no need for that," Father Lantom said, gentle and yet still drawing attention to him like eyes to a light. Matt remembered, suddenly, a vague picture of candles in the church, for midnight mass. "Can I ask why you are here?"

"I was--" but Matt couldn't lie. Not to a priest. Reflexive honesty that he'd thought he'd shed took over. "I was visiting my father's grave."

The Father moved closer, and Matt was frozen. If he were to be punished for this-- Foggy wouldn't want--

"Oh, Battlin' Jack," Father Lantom said. It sounded like he had a small, sad smile on his face. "You must be Matthew, then."

Matt--nodded. He could not, would not deny his father.

"Well, you're welcome to come back whenever you'd like. Though it might be best to avoid more...busy times. I'm afraid that some people are misguided about some issues of fundamental humanity," Father Lantom said.

Matt did not respond.

"Well, I'm sure you'd like to grieve in peace," the priest continued. "But perhaps--you look like someone you needs someone to talk to. If you'd like, you may come back another time, whenever you wish."

Matt nodded in slow acknowledgement. Maybe--no, he wouldn't. But it wouldn't be polite to turn him down.

The smell of smoke went sharply stronger, and Matt turned his head. He needed to get back to Foggy  _now_.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I have to go back to my owner."

Father Lantom nodded. He was...quieter than most people. Not making un-purposeful movements. "Of course, child."

Matt turned and left, trying to avoid thinking about what had just happened.

* * *

 

Chastity came to consciousness slowly and with great regret.

She was  _severely_ hung over. Hung over like a dead fish hung from a hook, dried out and aching. Her head felt like it was being punched, repeatedly, in perfect time with her heartbeat, and her throat hurt as she breathed.

She groaned and rolled over in bed as the television played some news channel. "Over fifty auctionhouses have been burned to the ground in New York City, after being evacuated by staff and possible terrorists posing as police officers. During the chaos, some eighteen hundred slaves escaped."

Chastity sighed. "Sister, turn the news off, my head hurts," she whined, pulling a pillow over her head.

Nobody glanced over at her and sighed, switching it to mute.

"I can still see the light," Chastity pointed out--and she could, the room she was sleeping in wasn't very large at all-- and then Nobody turned it off all the way.

  
"Thanks," she mumbled, and rolled over. She hurt in strange places--the Dora Milaje had been giving her a few sparring matches, and they didn't pull any punches. She'd gone out drinking with them last night as a celebration of how she'd improved since they first arrived in Wakanda, and they hadn't pulled any punches there either.

A thought drifted slowly into her head--the money for her and her sister. Had she depleted it? "Where are we with money?"

"The monthly amount in some accounts was increased. In a few it was decreased due to reports of the account owners thinking it was slaves stealing it from them."

Chastity snorted. "Well, they're not wrong," she said.

Slaves absolutely _were_ stealing from their owners--most had done it at least a little. A missed apple here, a chocolate bar there. Tampons, quarters, hairties. All sorts of little things tended to go unnoticed if you picked the right moment and hid the evidence.

But that wasn't quite what was going on _here_. See, the thing about funding a slave revolution was that you needed money that wasn't hard to move and wasn't difficult to renew constantly. Too much cash in one place and it'd be discovered, immovable money meant you couldn't use it efficiently.

And the thing about having people around all the time who knew things like your credit card numbers and banking information, because you were _too trusting_ to change it, even after you abused and sold them, was that when they joined the revolution they tended to share it.

And the thing about being rich enough to own slaves was that you tended not to notice if ten or so dollars was withdrawn from your accounts every month. Many rich owners never even managed their own accounts; plenty of expensive accountant-slaves existed.

And the thing about the movement was that they had more than enough bank accounts to draw from to make the monthly revenues in the eight-figure range, all without alerting anyone was to where they were getting it from.

And the thing about Swiss banks was that they were happy to just keep your money  _safe_.

"But otherwise it's good?"

"It is," Nobody said. "It's just--some of the ones we rescued, they're having a worse time of it integrating. I want to help."

Chastity rolled her eyes a little. Her sister was sweet, really, but this was a natural problem. High-class slaves who had trained themselves to not even  _think_ bad thoughts about their owners had problems when they were suddenly surrounded by filthy-mouthed, rowdy, furious people who routinely ranted about their former owners and compared them all in a race to find who had the worst owner of all. Conflict and problems getting along with people who had opposite philosophies were completely natural.

"You had a hard time of it when you were in at first," Chastity said, muffled by the pillow and hoarse from her dry mouth. "I remember. You almost got clocked every day for a while." And  _that_ was with a sharp citrus note of nostalgia.

It was a weird thing to say, but sometimes Chastity missed those days. They were the happiest part of her childhood, because everyone in the movement cooed over her or else ignored her, and everyone wanted to spoil her rotten. Instead of having weird stupid lists of fun things she was never, ever allowed to do and hours of numb boredom, she had suddenly had mountains of dolls and teddy bears and candy and ice cream and pillows and playmates and Happy Meals, so many, more than any free child she'd ever heard of, and nobody raised their voices at her unless they were having a crazy moment, and _nobody_ let anyone else hit her or lock her in a closet. All she ever had to do to get out of trouble was cry a little, and rarely did anyone make her  _behave_. It was a dirty word. She was always allowed to _do_ things, and the outside world seemed like a place full of endless things _to_ do.

The whole thing had felt exciting, not worrying. Running from motel to motel, hiding out in plain sight, getting to dye her hair all kinds of fun colors and constantly get new clothes--how could any girl not love that? She'd felt like James Bond, a master spy, like she could outsmart the whole world. She  _knew_ all sorts of things that nobody, not the middle school teachers or traffic cops or smug-faced politicians, knew. She still giggled sometimes at the secrets she'd been keeping since she was eight. Chastity had loved her childhood whole-heartedly.

But Nobody, on the other hand, hadn't exactly gotten along well with people. It had taken her years of being politely shunned by all but the most tolerant ex-slaves for her to change effectively and stop being so prissy with everyone else, but she'd eventually managed to channel her high-strung and hyper-organized personality into successful diplomacy, and Chastity had channeled her ability to smile sweetly and get what she wanted into helping her sister.

"I did," she said quietly. "Maybe I should write them a guide."

Chastity hummed. Her sister wasn't the best at writing for a wide audience; maybe she'd end up editing it. Not a bad project.

"But some of them--they want to go back."

Chastity winced at her sister's tone. Those ones were, well, the real problem. They presented a fairly serious dilemma: did you let people run straight back into hell, into certain torture and probable death, into the place you were fighting to eradicate, or did you kidnap and imprison people for trying to exercise the free will you were fighting and dying to give them?

The answer ended up being to quarantine rescues from sensitive information and stall them, give them enough time and rest and resources to think straight and make their own decisions with their own minds, not their masters'.

(Chastity barely remembered Master. She remembered a warm, dark figure coming into the little room she lived; she remembered him telling her she'd be a beautiful little girl. She remembered a kiss on her forehead, and him giving her shots. She remembered him starting to measure her hips every day, and him taking the clothes out of her dresser in the room.

But she did not try to remember any more. She didn't want nor need to; her sister knew the specifics, and all Chastity knew was a hunger snuffed out, a desire she'd strangled to death.)

"I should--do you think I should, I could talk to them?" Her sister asked, agonized.

"Maybe," Chastity said, uncomfortable with the question, and rolled back over to fall asleep again. "It's like nine in the morning, sis, let me  _sleep_ ," she complained, and Nobody pecked her forehead and sat there silently tapping at her phone, a comforting weight next to Chastity's exhausted body.

* * *

 

"What do you mean by 'issues of fundamental humanity'?" Matt asked.

He'd come back the next day, and sat down at Dad's grave and waited. The priest had come over almost immediately and sat down on a nearby bench.

Matt kept a distance. He hated it, but he had to.

"Some people are severely misguided," Father Lantom said. "They believe that legal statuses can change whether or not a person is in fact a person."

"You think that I'm a person?" 

"I believe that you have a soul, and are human," Father Lantom said. "And that anything else is an earthly matter, which cannot change what God made you."

Matt was silent. He couldn't disagree; that instinct to trust a priest went deeper than almost anything else. But how could that be right?

"I'm a slave," Matt said instead.

"That means you are being persecuted," Father Lantom told him gently. "Not that you deserve it."

Matt's eyes prickled, and he took a breath and turned back to Dad's grave. He was carefully cleaning it. It seemed hideous that it should ever be dirty in any way.

"The church does not allow slaves to be members," Matt said quietly. "Not to receive communion, or in any way partake of the church."

"The church once did not believe Galileo," Father Lantom rebutted him, firmly and kindly. "It is an unfortunate truth that sometimes even holy authorities are wrong."

Matt was silent. You didn't--he couldn't argue with a  _priest_.

The words rang in his head like bells, like bells in the middle of the night. Loud and alarming.

* * *

 

Sometimes Foggy was overcome by guilt.

He would look at Matt, or hear his voice, or read a text from him, and he would remember what he'd done, and he would have to think about the birthdays of everyone in his family to not get up and jump off the nearest bridge.

It was harder than anything he'd ever done before in his life. Applying to law school, busting his ass to qualify for scholarships, swallowing his pride and asking Rosalind for money, turning down millions of dollars--it was all nothing compared to not doing what felt like like the only sane thing to do in those moments. If you asked him whether he'd rather have to skin his own legs and go skinny-dipping or feel the guilt, Foggy would choose the former every time.

But he endured it. He remembered that him dying wouldn't help Matt. He loved his mom, he really did, but she didn't  _know_ Matt, not like he did. She didn't know about the occasional silent nightmare, or about Matt loving babies, or about how he wanted to be a criminal defense attorney, or how to let him wash your feet so he could feel safer, or how desperately Matt would try to maneuver you into raping him. She was a psychiatrist, and maybe she would be qualified to treat Matt as a patient, but Foggy didn't know if anyone in the world--including him--was truly qualified to live with Matt and take care of him at all.

(And his dad might manage to persuade Anna to sell him, and that made Foggy terrified and furious to imagine. He wanted to scream at his dad, shake him and  _make_ him understand that Matt wasn't like a cute puppy who barked too much and would be adopted back from the shelter if you returned him, he was a  _person_ and  _nobody else would remember that if they owned him_. 

Matt could--he had--he  _did_ fend for himself. He survived things so awful Foggy couldn't quite believe they weren't an exaggeration, like the thing with the old man and the slave Jo. But he would smile and graciously thank you for treating him like a brilliant and expensive coffeemaker that you could stick your dick in with minimal injury, and he would think that was  _fine_. He was not someone who would protect his freedom. Foggy had to do that for him.)

Miriam, when Foggy had first brought it up, had said gently that while it was perhaps much too intense guilt if it was causing such thoughts, it did not make him a bad person in and of itself. "The ability to consistently feel guilt for ways you've harmed people is a sign of someone who can and does want to do good," Miriam said. "We all have hurt people, and many people have done so in serious ways like you. I have hurt people, and I feel guilt when I remember it. You don't need to get rid of the emotion entirely, and it's not a sign that you can't learn from your mistakes. It's not an emotion that often acts in proportion."

Somehow Foggy knew that she didn't see the irony.

 

* * *

 

Midterms were hell. Absolute bloody hell.

Cramming for them was terrible in and of itself--Foggy and Matt barely spoke the first week, heads buried in books. Foggy would wake up to unlock Matt and see him on his laptop, already having to rest his fingertips in a bowl of ice. Matt would put out two plates of food on the table for dinner, and Foggy would forget his until it was cold, consistently. Both of them seemed to have accidentally timed their breaks exactly wrong--they never had fifteen minutes where they were both not-studying and could chat and smile at each other. Foggy would reach over and lock Matt's ankle shackle at night, but neither of them would fall asleep for hours. The air itself seemed desperately focused.

Both of them were too deep into trying to not fail to even remember their usual Sunday evening routine of a movie, and the closest they got to any kind of relief was the morning before their first midterm when they stopped at a little coffee shop and ate croissants and coffee in a quiet, pleasant silence.

"Good luck," Foggy told Matt as they headed to their first test. Matt had to take his with someone dictating the test and writing down his answers for him in the Disability Services office, so they were stopping there first.

"We'll do fine," Matt said with a reassuring smile and went into the testing room.

* * *

 

The night after their last midterm, Bee headed out to Emilia's.

She'd sent out an email--this time in the form of an ad for Teddy Bear Appendix Removal Hottubs, only $16.99.5 for the set--encoding that this meeting might be 'emotionally difficult' for certain members, and to bring something warm. Bee was confused; most of the meetings were emotionally difficult  _anyway_ , with some of the ex-slaves crying, shouting, or cringing back when things got heavy. 

Granted, plenty of meetings were gentle, just Emilia giving them food and them all playing that card game where Owner cards were bad and made you lose until you could get rid of them, and some types of Slave cards were good and helped you win, and the rules and goal changed a lot. But gentleness still made a lot of them cry, especially the newest member, Liona, who'd been a C-class when her conviction had been overturned. 

Bee made sure to have Anthea warm and bundled up in a hoodie in their backpack when they headed out.

The second they opened the door, a rich, warm smell filled the air--a smell that made Bee's mouth water. Salty and filling up every breath of air, pushing deep into the walls, utterly and completely good, and Bee suddenly, viscerally missed their tongue. They missed being able to taste things, even though most of the things they had tasted had been not very good.

(Come, sweat, burnt eggs, plain defrosted waffles. Skim milk, lukewarm water, the occasional, jealously guarded yellow apple.)

But they pushed it away and walked into the living room, settling down next to Carlisle. Before they could ask what the smell was, Emilia came in and waved her hands in Bee's face.

<Come get some stew and cider! It's warm, but I made both.>

<Cider?>

<Hot cider, made from apples and spices and things,> Emilia explained, and Bee stood up with their backpack still on. <Come, there's a bowl for everyone.>

Bee followed Emilia into the kitchen, which was boiling hot. Ex-slaves were milling in and out, grabbing spoons from a big pile and putting big spoonfuls from four giant pots into bowls and mugs. Emilia filled up a dark blue bowl with the stew and put a spoon in it, and then paused, leaving it on the counter to ask Bee, <You don't like bread, right?>

<The crusts are hard to chew.>

Emilia nodded. <But the spongy parts are good?>

<Yes.>

Emilia tore off a chunk of sponge from a big loaf of bread and handed it to Bee. <Here, and here's your cider. I'll carry it for you,> she signed one-handed and poured out a big, misshapen mug full of the cider for Bee. The smell wafted into their nose as they walked, rich and spicy and sweet, so strong it made their eyes water.

After they were situated, bowl in their lap and mug on a little end table to their right, Anthea propped up under the table and safely out of the way of spills, Emilia started to talk and sign simultaneously. It always made Bee feel impressed when they saw it; unlike most people who signed and spoke at the same time, Emilia kept the grammar of both languages separate and never slipped into bastardized SEE. 

Bee listened as she said, "Hello everyone! First of all, there's still plenty of stew and cider on the stove, simmering, so please get more whenever you want. Second, tonight may be very upsetting or triggering for everyone, so if you feel like you need to, please just slip out to 'use the bathroom' or 'get more stew' or anything else. I won't be offended."

Their eyes narrowed. What, exactly, was so upsetting it warranted an explicit reminder of the rules? Everyone there knew that they could make an excuse or not and walk out if they wanted to. They almost  _always_ talked out things that made someone feel like shit anyway. 

Bee tuned out the little apprehensive whispers.

"Tonight I feel like it's time to give all of us a small hour or two of sex education," Emilia continued, and Bee felt the blood drain out of their face.

* * *

 

As it turned out, it was mostly interesting, but just factual stuff at first--all the usual things about how to try to not get pregnant (squatting and scooping, condoms, all types of pills, going and getting the shot in your back) or diseases (condoms, scrubbing, taking certain pills that you could beg or bargain for), though at least Emilia phrased it to show that she knew that most of them had really, really never had a choice about any of that and could at most beg. Everyone paid close attention--any STD meant you'd be a zombie the second you were re-enslaved, unless you were class-L, and even then you would likely be punished for it.

Then she talked about when to call her or ask the doctors for help if you thought you were sick, how much lube you needed to use (a _lot_ , and apparently it was a good idea to have some even when something was going into a pussy, which Bee wasn't surprised by--theirs wasn't wet pretty much ever), which clinics would give you the back shot or the pills or condoms or get rid of a baby for you or help you have it safely, and then about which types of things were safe to be inside you ( _not_ glass unless it was a glass dildo  _designed_ to be inside humans and solid and made of a type of glass that apparently didn't break most of the time at all, and  _not_ any type of food and  _not_ things made out of 'jelly' materials that didn't have  a condom on them).

Then she moved on to the hard stuff, and Bee's stomach clenched. 

"The next thing is the kind of sex you want to have," Emilia said. "First of all, if you're having strange or upsetting or disturbing or very weird thoughts when you masturbate--if you do, which most people do but you don't have to--"

Bee felt very cold, and put aside the stew bowl (now full of liquid) next to the spongy bread and grabbed Anthea, squeezing her tight to their chest.

"--then you're completely normal and you don't have to be scared or ashamed," Emilia said, calm and firm.

The entire room looked nervous and confused. Everyone glanced around at each other or gaped at her in shock.

"Listen! Have any of us here  _not_ been used?"

Everyone shook their heads in unison.

"Well," she said, sitting on the floor and moving her legs around. "Being used isn't good for us. It hurts us, even if they're gentle and they use enough lube and we don't bleed afterwards. It's not good. We are supposed to own our own bodies, and have sex when we decide to, not when someone else does. So even if we have an orgasm, it hurts us in here," and she tapped her head. "Especially if we're too young to understand what's going on. And it hurts everyone differently. For some slaves, it's like a beating that misses all the bones. For other slaves, it's like the whip."

A more interested, attentive silence. Bee felt tense, unconsciously held their breath.

"Part of being hurt in your mind is having strange and creepy thoughts afterwards," Emilia explained. She'd talked about this before, but not quite in these terms. "This applies to sex too. Even after I was freed, I dreamed about being used and I expected it. I used to beg my mother to use me when she was angry because I knew that had always made my mas--my rapists feel calmer and not take it out on anyone else. You learn, as a slave, how to be used, and since it involves sex your mind mixes it up with sex, and you expect sex to be like that too. Sometimes it means you want to be tied up, or to not orgasm. And sometimes, for some of us, it means we want to hurt other people with sex. Or we want gentle, gentle, careful sex with only someone we can trust absolutely. 

"Having strange sex dreams, especially if they're about people who used you, isn't weird at all. Neither is having those thoughts that just zoom in and out of your mind about what I'd look like naked or remembering how it felt to be used. And no matter what you want or you think about, you don't have to go out and do it. It's okay if you never have sex as a free person. Or you have a lot of it. Or you swing between them. You don't have to do either.

"And especially if you're having thoughts that alarm you, or you want to hurt people--you don't have to be scared. A lot of us have those thoughts and never hurt anyone. I have terrible thoughts some times--I used to think I was possessed. If you're worried, talk to me. I promise I will help you. I want you all to be safe in your own heads, and I won't think you're bad for your thoughts. I _will_ help you. I promise."

Bee realized they didn't feel cold anymore. If _Emilia_ had terrible thoughts, surely they couldn't mean what Bee had been inarticulately terrified they would turn out to mean. It had to be like how their heart rattled in their chest whenever they were startled--it was the twin cunts' fault. Not theirs.

Next to them, Carlisle looked strange, smiling but crying a little, and Bee reached out and patted their arm once before bringing their hand back to Anthea's soft swirls of brown fur. She was still being squeezed tight, but Bee knew she didn't mind.

"And you can have sex that's not being used that looks like being used does. The difference is when you own your body and you're the one telling someone else how to tie you up, or what not to do, or whatever it is. It's different, even if it could look the same if someone else saw it.

"Oh, and wanting another woman if you are one, or a man if you are one isn't wrong. I forgot that part," Emilia said with a smile, and everyone laughed a little, eyes bright and shining.

Bee dipped the spongy bread into the stew and brought it to their mouth, wanting to distract themselves. The feeling of it against their gums was strange and new and wonderful, and they smiled and did it again. It made their mouth tingle, and the sensation was so pleasant, hot liquid spilling against their teeth.

The room was full of people that looked nervous, teary, and happy. And Bee felt like a part of it, like this was where they belonged.

They sipped at the cider--salty things made them thirsty--and their mouth burned a little, just a little, embers against their stump and all over the inside of their mouth. It was warm and pleasant, and they weren't suspicious of anything, and they wondered if this was what it felt like to feel _safe_.

* * *

That same night, after they'd trudged home, Foggy put his backpack down on his bed and stretched, groaning. He went to the living room and sagged onto the couch, and waited for Matt to appear.

He did after he'd brushed his hair again--and Foggy smiled, seeing Matt look more normal and slightly prissy as usual--and Foggy cleared his throat.

"Hey. So, uh, I was thinking...we missed our movie on Sunday. So what do you think of us watching two this weekend? Both of us choosing one?"

Matt looked contemplative, and nodded.

"Cool, so let me know which one you want so I can see if the library has it or if it's on Netflix or whatever," Foggy said, pulling out his phone. Matt started to say something, and then cut himself off.

"It's fine if you don't know right now which one--" Foggy started, and then stopped.

"I, I'll choose another," Matt murmured.

"What, why?"

"I doubt we can acquire the one I'm thinking of," Matt explained. "It has only English subtitles, I believe. I'll choose a different one, Foggy."

Foggy blinked at him. "O-kay. But let me see if we _could_ get the first one, at least. Maybe Columbia has it or it's on Amazon for cheap or something."

Matt frowned. "It would be expensive, Foggy, I'm sorry I--"

"No, just let me! We have, like, cash now," Foggy hastily lowered his volume. "Let me do nice things for you, okay? I feel shitty about us having to cram so hard for midterms and then not even getting our usual Matt-and-Foggy-partners-in-crime time. Let me at least take the five seconds it will take to look it up."

Matt looked like a scolded puppy and nodded, lowering his head a little. "It's called _Good-Bye, Lenin!_ " he explained.

Foggy looked it up. No luck with Netflix or Amazon, but-- "The library has a copy. Cool, we can grab it tomorrow."

Matt blinked, and then smiled.

"Wanna tell me what it's about? No, wait," Foggy amended. "No, surprise me."

Matt smiled, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "I try, Foggy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from "Forgetfulness" by Billy Collins, here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/detail/37695


	138. and he has drunk of you and you are almost whole in the clumsy wonder of maybe he is the one, though he appears a strange divergence  from your girlhood imaginings

Saturday was perfect.

Foggy woke up and looked at his phone and shit, was it really almost noon already? Had Matt been spending that long sitting there chained up, awake? He felt terrible, and leaned over to unlock his ankle immediately, except he glanced at Matt's face and realized he was still sleeping, eyes half-shut the way they were sometimes, and he stilled.

Matt was so beautiful. It wasn't just his face, though that was gorgeous--it was everything. It was his neck, his hair, his chest through the outline of his pajama shirt, his arms. How the hell was he so toned and smooth all the time? And his stomach--Foggy couldn't see it right now, but he knew from memory it was flat and hard, with all of his abs on display like vacuum-sealed chicken breasts, and he gaped at the sight of it every time, licking his lips unconsciously.

Foggy realized, suddenly, sharply, that Matt had the exact type of body Foggy had tried to have for years, had dreamed he'd have after puberty, had dreamed he'd have after the diet pills. The sort of body Rosalind had been disappointed he didn't have. And then he laughed because he realized he'd  _never_ look like that and that was a  _good_ thing. Two people with the powers of Matt's incredible hotness would be terrifying. It would be like two Captain Americas in the same room. 

Matt's eyelids fluttered, and Foggy leaned over and unlocked his ankle immediately, and then Matt yawned and stretched, completely silently. Foggy wondered how it was that he'd been trained to  _yawn_ silently too. 

He decided to stop thinking about it. Today felt good already and he didn't want to ruin it.

Matt woke up, blinking his brown eyes, and then he turned his head a little and pointed his eyes at Foggy. It was strange how he did it, always moving his eyes so they  _almost_ looked like they were looking at you, twitching them to be oriented towards noise, and Foggy had always wondered why Matt bothered. Didn't everyone know he was blind already?

"Good morning, Foggy," Matt said, breaking off  _another_ yawn at the end. "How are you?"

Foggy considered it. "Oh my god, so much better. Wow. Midterms  _sucked_ this semester," he said emphatically. "I feel like a ran a marathon. Not that I've ever actually _done_ that, but I'm sure it feels like this. Let's spend the day lazing around in bed and doing nothing."

Matt smiled at him warmly, a little amused. "I was hoping to bake a few things," he said gently. "Three types of trifles, and perhaps some chocolate chip cookies as well."

Foggy blinked. "What are 'trifles'?"

"Delicious concotions," Matt teased. "Which you will understand once I bake them."

"Oh, fine," Foggy teased back. "But I'll be lying in bed producing  _nothing_ ," he added, turning over and wrestling his laptop to lie on his legs. 

Matt sniffed, faux-offended, and left to go wash his face and brush his teeth. Foggy watched him go, eyes glued to him. He always watched Matt when he left his sight, slightly afraid that one time it'd be the last.

* * *

 

Baking was a good idea, Matt thought. He needed a little time to sort out his thoughts and straighten himself back out before any of his terrible, terrible epiphanies could be seen by Foggy, sniffed out like a rotting wound. 

 _I love Foggy and I still miss Dad_ , Matt thought to himself, cringing a little, but it felt strangely...not that terrible? Certainly not as catastrophic as it had felt the week before midterms. It had loomed in his thoughts every time he studied, a horror lurking to haunt him if he stopped reviewing torts and criminal law and basics of contracts for more than a minute. 

But here, in his owner's kitchen, baking cakes and whipping up cream and jams and a good lime curd, listening to his owner contentedly hum and occasionally turn over in his bed, it felt much less disastrous to think about.  _I can handle this,_ Matt realized. He  _could_. He'd handled much worse crises, Mistress Janet's abusive ex-husband and the time the twins both had febrile seizures and when Mistress Sharon pulled him harshly into her bed and when someone tried to firebomb Summer's hotel room and her dresses were ruined and when he was sold and sobbing and being shaved--

Matt took a deep breath and focused on his whipped cream for a minute, the soothing ache in his arm distracting from the old, bad memories. They were stickier than syrup sometimes. 

He kept on whipping--he had been taught to do it by hand, Summer disdainful of anyone who 'needed' a mixer or who only bought chicken in already-cut pieces or used a rice cooker or any other 'lazy shortcut'--and he thought about what he would  _do_ with all that new information.

 _Be good for Foggy, be the best for Foggy_ was fairly obvious. But as much as he knew that he ought to try and get himself sold so he wouldn't be in so much danger, he couldn't even try to commit to it. The idea of being Foggy's no longer was complete and absolute bone-shattering agony, and Matt flinched away from it far more than he flinched away from actual broken bones. He would just have to...maintain an appropriate attitude, he supposed. Not make himself another mask--not when that had been in retrospect a very bad idea--but rather just remember that he was a slave and Foggy was not, and that there would therefore always be a gap between them and in that gap Matt would kneel and softly murmur and never, ever forget what he was.

Well, that was surmountable, he thought to himself, ignoring a twinge in his chest. He could do that. He  _would_ do that.

He nodded firmly to himself and separated the whipped cream, adding in each different flavoring. One would be gently spiced with cardamom, cinnamon, and sugar, one would be blended with passion fruit and mango pulp, and the other would be rippled with the raspberry jam currently bubbling away on the stove.

The next problem, of course, was that now he knew where Dad's grave was, and for the first time since he was a person it was close enough and he had sufficient freedom that he could go  _visit it_.

It was wrong, he knew, wrong because he wasn't allowed on sacred ground of any kind, wasn't allowed in churches or cemeteries or at weddings or funerals, but it didn't--it hadn't  _felt_ wrong, and that was troubling all on its own. Matt knew that even though he didn't deserve any sort of a soul anymore, he still had the sense that certain things were wrong or right, and when he did something horribly wrong he could feel it; his skin would try to crawl away from him. But it hadn't at the church, not really. He'd felt like he had in the early days of training when he'd been caught sneaking extra water or stealing an apple or a forbidden towel, and that was different.

And besides, Father Lantom (the words in his head  _thought_ respectfully, carefully, with a kind of emphasis that had never gone away once he had learned it) had said it was not disrespectful, that Matt could come back. And Summer--wasn't a priest, she couldn't possibly  _know_ things about the church the way a priest could, and so Matt, uncomfortably, swallowed and decided she was wrong. 

It felt very, very bad to decide that Summer was wrong when he wasn't angry. Like eating food that had spoiled, he thought, shuddering and gulping down the sliminess.

* * *

 

Bee spent the weekend in a very uncharacteristic manner.

Usually they used their weekends to take walks and do homework. The homework because it needed to be done--they needed to yank their grades up forcefully to graduate and pass the bar in time-- and the walks because they loved them. It was a pleasant feeling, getting to walk around wherever they wanted, wandering into the city or just around campus, finding strange new places and being alone. Well, not quite alone. They took Anthea in their backpack with them, close enough to reach in and stroke her fur when they couldn't breathe. 

The oddest and best part was that they knew they could be like this forever if they really wanted to. They could simply walk away from everything, from Columbia and Matt and Emilia and Carlisle and the dorms and the idiot girls on their hall and their life, walk and walk and be  _free_ and untethered from everyone if they really wanted to.

It made them feel strange, floating in the sky like the wispy gray clouds that came on dark, damp days. They sometimes felt like they wanted to run away and leave everything behind; it rose up in them like vomit, an itch in their feet, but they didn't. They didn't want to, not really, but it was so, so tempting, like how rich food looked when you were starving--like the best thing in the world, even when you knew it'd just hurt you.

Bee wondered, sometimes, how free people learned to deal with that feeling, or if they even had it. Sometimes they didn't seem _real_  to them, like how slaves in movies were never real. It was like they were paintings only finished halfway, but everyone acted like they were finished and perfect, even when they were stupid cunts.

But this Saturday and Sunday Bee did, really, nothing at all. They left their room only once, and that was to buy a new gallon of milk from the school store. In the checkout line the boy behind him--and it was a _boy_ , someone so baby-faced and puppy-haired that Bee immediately twigged him as being as mature as the deer in that movie about mothers dying--had tapped them on the shoulder and said, "Hey, you'd look really pretty if you smiled more."

Bee, wearing sweatpants and unbrushed hair and a shirt that was  _just_ starting to hug their body, stared at him blankly for a minute. They were shocked by the tap alone--nobody actually touched them who wasn't Carlisle or Emilia or Matt or Dr Kayle--and it took them a second to think of a response to how fucking stupid and cuntlike and idiotic and inane the hidden comand was. They then hooked their middle fingers into each side of their mouth and yanked them apart, baring their unbrushed teeth, and whirled around to pay for their milk.

They walked back, put the milk in the miniature fridge, and did nothing at all for the rest of the weekend. They lay in bed and watched silly terrible Netflix shows and hugged their bear, sometimes re-positioning their pillows to sit up against the wall or prop themselves up on their side, and they took a shower and changed into different pajamas precisely once. They didn't venture out to eat or drink, instead gulping down nutrient drinks and heating up and drinking plain water and eating crackers in their preferred way--they soaked them in a bowl with with ramen broth and the cooked, soft noodles and mashed it into a paste, eating it with a spoon one gulp at a time. 

It was utter laziness, and it felt just as good as taking a meandering walk around town, and Bee felt a strange kind of peace settling down in their ribcage. They slept for long hours and didn't so much as glance at their textbooks and they were...good, and warm, and maybe this was safety? Or freedom?

Maybe this was freedom? Getting to just waste an entire weekend with a little smile, be lazy and smell musty and draped with messy blankets, eat what you couldn't around other people because they thought it was disgusting, ignore responsibilities and basic care and what your owners would have done to you if you'd done any of this earlier?

Bee tapped their thigh, stretched a leg, and let the next episode of  _Hemlock Grove_  start playing.

* * *

 

_Everything is a performance._

Summer recited old security codes to memorize them, rolling the coiled spring over her cheek. It wouldn't do to let the fine little hairs on her cheeks interfere with her makeup, and this owner hardly touched her face enough to appreciate their softness.

The spring ripped them out and she sighed with pleasure at the feeling. It was always nice getting to tear something out from the roots, leaving the violence in its plainest state. She used to hate having to disguise it all with waxes and razor blades, trick the eye into gazing at the disguises instead of the truth. 

It was like covering up bruises--an artform in and of itself, but something she nevertheless disliked doing. She wore her strength and resilience like a badge of honor. She did not cower from it like a child from a monster. She knew better than that.

She ripped the next section of hair out of her cheek and hummed to herself one of the songs she used to sing when she was first learning about beautification. Not like the ghastly little ditties the slave-children sang nowadays in the institutions, but one of deep sorrow and acceptance, knowing that beauty was pain and they would all have to suffer for it, in a language so few people spoke anymore.

She sang softly to herself as she finished her cheeks and went on to carefully prune her eyebrows, focusing on not squeezing the tweezers too hard and snapping them. Even the little things were worth not wasting. She finished her eyebrows and remembered: she had to go and check on her latest bonsai tree, a little cactus. She stood and chatted to it as she worked, telling it to be good and grow smoothly, with no sudden spurts to ruin its image.

A part of her was a little alarmed at how suddenly vocal she was; her owner was out again, stalking the star-spangled man with a suicide plan, and it wasn't quite normal for her to be talking to herself. But she knew it was because she missed her little child Matt, missed talking to him almost constantly, drowning out his foolish notions with her voice, teaching him everything she knew and more. She grew him more carefully than any bonsai, pruned him, kept him right. She'd done the right thing and she had loved him, as stupid as it was, loved him like she had grown him inside of her. 

It had been long years without him.

 _But he carried the blood inside of him. She was_ always _with him._

And now, being in this filthy rat-infested corpse of a city, it made her miss him the more. She'd pulled him from this grimy, disgusting maggot's nest, and being around it only made her think of the day she first saw him, pacing through the Brooklyn market with that old sundress. She still had it, but it was gathering dust in storage, in the closet down South. It hardly seemed appropriate to wear it again in this depraved rotting carcass pretending at being a city.

_Perhaps, if she were to have to pick out another..._

She finished working on the bonsai and stood back up, taking down her hair-towel and beginning to roll it up and pin it to her head with bobby pins, and she strategized. More direct contact with Matt would only prove counterproductive, and contact with that naive toddling doughball of his owner would be even moreso. No, she knew, she had to go about it  _just right_.

Perhaps one of their neighbors would be willing to.. _tell_ her things. Not for sex, that was forbidden, but an awful lot of people would do an awful lot of things for someone beautiful with a nice smile who would make them tea and listen to their troubles and pat their knee. It was so, so easy to lead them to think that they'd get to fuck her  _some day_ , some day  _soon_ , without ever promising a thing.

Leading people about while letting them think they were leading  _her_ about was her life's work, after all. A faithful slave was always the greatest king.

_You must make your decisions for yourself, never allowing another to make them for you._

* * *

Foggy felt weird lying in bed, but he didn't get up to break the spell once he heard Matt using the mixer. 

Matt got...intense about baking, and he didn't want to interrupt him. It reminded Foggy in a good way of Anna, of getting to do homework in the kitchen while she baked breads and cakes to work out her stresses about her patients. She also got very focused once she started something complicated, and as far as Foggy could tell Matt didn't do anything in a simple way, not even things made of five ingredients.

(Once he'd asked Matt for a plain bread loaf. Matt had made him  _baguettes._ )

So instead he lay back in bed and idly researched criminal defense firms and abolitionist legal positions and ways he could be a better person. The ACLU was useless--they worked for enforcing  _Constitutionally-held_ rights, and so only worked for cases where it was discrimination against ex-slaves or people who had been falsely convicted--but there were a mess of organizations that claimed they wanted more lawyers to free people.

The problem was that there wasn't just one kind of specialization needed, it seemed. Some people got freed by criminal defense attorneys appealing or overturning convictions. Others got freed by divorce and family lawyers fighting for someone else to get custody. Still others needed advocates and disability lawyers to revoke guardianship and free disabled people, and even more needed lawyers who had all these specialties  _and_ experience with slavery laws, which were ridiculously convoluted and widely varied in their specific regulations and permissions from  _county to county_ , much less state to state.

Foggy boggled at the sheer difficulty of it all, and then shook his head. He knew deliberate incompetence when he'd seen it; he thought back to him and Candace cleaning the bathrooms in the worst possible way and breaking dishes in the dishwasher and bleaching pink shirts in the laundry to try and convince Mom to stop giving them chores.

It was  _on purpose_ , all the bureaucratic horseshit. It was all to convince people to  _give up_.

Foggy bared his teeth unconsciously. Too fucking bad for them, then, that Foggy Nelson was a stubborn nerd who was more than happy to be on hold for  _years_ if that's what it took. 

(He remembered the amazing time in undergrad he'd drunk-dialed the water company and halved Anna and Dad's water bills for the next sixth months. He was  _just that good_.)

He sat up as Matt called out softly, "Trifles are ready, Foggy."

* * *

 

The scene in the kitchen was gorgeous. There were nine champagne flutes out, each one with what looked like a bizarro-world version of an ice cream sundae. There were three in front of Foggy's spot at the table; one had pink cream in it, the other had what looked like pink-yellow cream on top, and the third was brown all over.

"The trifles are raspberry rippled cream and white chocolate ganache and sponge cake with vanilla shortbread, mango and passion fruit cream with lime cake, pineapple and coconut rums, and lemon curd, and chai latte with a chewy chocolate-chip cookie base and a Kahlua-spiced coffee cake."

Foggy blinked and then licked his lips, feeling like he was drooling. "They look  _amazing_ ," he said reverently. "Oh my  _god_ ," and then he stopped.

"Uh, how do I eat these? Do I just tip it all into my mouth at once, or--?"

Matt laughed softly, and Foggy cherished the fact that he  _could_ and  _did_ , casually and without looking upset or frightened, and handed him a long-handled spoon Foggy had never seen before. "With this," he said.

Foggy used it to dig into the raspberry once first, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head as he tasted cake, chocolate sauce, fresh raspberry, cookie, jam, and cream at the same time. It was-- it was like sex and snuggling under a new blanket and putting on a freshly warmed sweater and opening Christmas presents all at the same time. 

"Holy  _cock,"_ he said without thinking, and then he burst into laughter. Matt joined in after a quarter of a second, and doubled over as Foggy couldn't stop.

"I mean it," he gasped once he could talk, tears at the edge of his eyes. "I mean it. It's fucking awesome, I love it. Did you make literally all of this? I love it. It's amazing."

Matt smiled brilliantly, cheeks flushed from laughing. "I don't take shortcuts," he said. "It makes for lazy habits."

Foggy tried the citrus one next, and  _that_ was awesome too, the rum somehow calmed down by the sugar and cream and cake, and then the chai latte one. He was apprehensive--he hadn't had a chai latte ever, as Anna generally felt that Starbucks was too expensive and Rosalind felt that ordering a latte was some sort of personal failing. He did  _go_ to Starbucks on occasion, but he rarely ventured outside of cappuccinos and mocha frappacinos.

He ate it and stared at it with wide eyes.

"Marry me," he said without thinking and then cringed, oh shit--

But all Matt did was laugh like he'd told the funniest joke in the world.

* * *

 

Matt was very, very happy. 

Foggy had loved the trifles, adored them, and Matt had happily put the rest away for later. Foggy had insisted he eat at least half of the three testers, and Matt had obliged him, licking at the spoon without even thinking about it.

It felt so good to be able to predict his owner so well. He cheerfully went along with Foggy's suggestion that they order pizza because he'd 'already done enough for today, seriously, Matt' and even asked for extra chicken wings and a salad as well. Foggy was such a nice owner to serve, Matt thought to himself as he put out napkins and got the movie ready, he was really very predictable once you'd accepted his insane list of eccentricities.

And it felt  _wonderful_ to just have this with him--to eat pizza, to time his eating his salad and some wings, to sip at his water at appropriate intervals and keep Foggy on an even keel throughout the evening, to sample his own trifles and file away his minor mistakes (the raspberry jam was too sweet, the lime sponge was too light,, the passion fruit was overpowered by the mango, the chai whipped cream had too little cardamom for preference) for further improvement without being reproached for them.

Matt was dancing just right tonight, and he loved it. He slept well and easy that night, slipping almost immediately into a deep, deep dreamless sleep.

* * *

 

Foggy woke up at three in the morning, wide-awake and annoyed.

He started to groan and then stopped himself, remembering that Matt was in the room with him and he didn't want to wake him up. He stared at the ceiling in the darkness, watching the fluorescent lights of the city flicker and stretch across it, and then gave in and sat up, shambling towards the kitchen.

" _Braiiiins..."_ he muttered, opening up the fridge and rootling around for leftover pizza. When his insomnia did bullshit like this, there really wasn't any other way to deal with it besides eating, drinking, and then curling back up in bed with hot chocolate and praying for sleep. Or death, whichever one you felt like at the time.

His thoughts ran to the movie he'd seen.

It had been  _weird_ and  _hilarious_ and deeply alien to him, almost completely unrelatable but nevertheless understandable. He couldn't imagine ever wanting a horrific communist state to come back, or lying to Anna on anywhere near that scale, or fishing pickle jars out of dumpsters, but he somehow  _felt_ everything Alex had felt, every bit of agony and hope and fury.

Throughout the movie, Foggy had been too absorbed in understanding it as it went along to think about its deeper meaning, but now as he chewed on cold pizza and heated up water in the microwave (he knew Matt would probably be offended by this in the morning, though he wouldn't admit it under threat of torture) it came to him sharply. 

 _Good Bye, Lenin!_ was about  _forgiveness_.

It forgave everyone, and it loved Alex and him and his mother and sister and his country in its entirety. Nobody was bad or evil for anything they did or felt, and nobody had to be blamed for what had happened. It was just as okay that Alex missed his East Germany and mourned for it as it was okay that he'd helped end it, Foggy realized, and the movie had forgiven Christine for her idealism and her realism. Nothing made anyone irredeemable or awful or pinned all the bad things on anyone--the pickles and the movie broadcasts and the dick graffiti and the death and the coma and the taxi driver--

_Nobody was the bad guy._

It was such an odd thing, but Foggy had the vague notion, as he stirred in hot chocolate mix and went about carrying his mug back to his room to drink, that it was something he'd need to remember and think and think about. He sipped at it, and thought only of Matt and his strange, horrible love for the woman who Matt was sure would have  _killed them all in their sleep._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from Jeanann Verlee's "For the Woman Who Loved the Predator More Than His Prey", here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/156845964143/i-wanted-to-sing-you-a-curse-song-marty


	139. you are not allowed in my hell. you must stay in your own hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings in this chapter for rationalization of abuse, discussion of drug addiction, objectification/sexualization of suicide, graphic depictions of rape and rape jokes, and a very graphic murder scene.

In a small Starbucks in Manhatten sat a woman at a table.

She was a very weird-looking woman, undeniably; she was skinny all over, her face small and her legs bony, and yet she wasn't skinny in the way that some people were, small muscles and very little fat, but instead she was a worn kind of skinny, with soft skin that was prematurely wrinkled. Her face and most of her arms were darker than the rest of her, not that anyone there could see it; her hair had the distinct appearance of hair that had originally been thick and somewhat oily, but was now so bleached and dyed and re-dyed and re-bleached and permed and straightened and curled, all with hot irons, that it now looked more like steel wool than anything else.

She was wearing a faux-denim shirt with flowery elbow patches, a skirt made of some scratchy knockoff polyester underneath acrylic handmade crocheted lace, all in eye-watering neon variegated yarn and tie-dyed fabric, and she was wearing a total of three different pieces of jewelry: a large cross necklace with a small, half-scraped-off  _Made In the USA_ sticker on the bottom, a pin that said  _JESUS SAVES_ on a background of a Florida sunset, and a bracelet made of little psalm numbers all locked together.

She smelled very strongly of cigarettes, terrible coffee, and expensive perfume, and she had ordered a mango iced tea with no sugar, and proceeded to add cinnamon and nine stevia packets without stirring, and did not wear shoes at all.

She sat across from another woman, who had a very different appearance; where the first woman had an appearance made up of dozens of details that each said something, the second woman had absolutely no details at all, only a single overarching message. Her entire attire screamed one thing:  _fuck off_. It was so loud that even noticing exactly what she was wearing was a fool's game; her hoodie, for example, was simply  _dark_ , not a specific color at all, neither quite black or blue or brown or gray, and the fact that it was baggy but not too baggy on her was difficult to even notice. She looked sunken and furious and was drinking from a bottle of whiskey in a paper bag that she periodically alternated with what appeared to be a  _treinta_ -sized black coffee.

The third woman, who was not sitting at the table but rather working as a barista, had an entirely different appearance from the both of them; instead of being made up of tiny bits or else of one piece of cold, muttered rage, she had an entire aura made up of smooth component parts that all blended together to leave the impression that she was attractive, young, and very generic. She had the same hairstyle as the other baristas, wore the same general uniform as the other baristas (but with a good bra and good pants that subtly showed off her flat stomach) and had the same kind of unremarkable mostly-nude makeup as the other baristas, applied perfectly to highlight her already above-average face. She spoke exactly like them, and moved mostly like them, and for the most part was unnoticeable.

The first woman was also vibrating with nervousness at the same time as the second woman was blankly indifferent to her. The second woman chugged some coffee and finally said, not asked, "So what do you want."

"I have a daughter I need help tracking down," the first woman said. "I lost track of her when she was just a toddler, and now I've got no idea where to look."

"How did you lose track of a baby?" the second woman asked, raising an eyebrow. She wasn't the kind of cuddly maternal woman that actually knew things about babies, but from what she could tell you couldn't lose them like spare change or empty rye bottles.

"I was...I had fallen into a terrible lifestyle when I had her," the first woman said. "I was into it all...weed, drinking, I didn't go to church, I swore all the time, I watched _Jeopardy_ every day, and Dr Phil too, I gambled on Powerball tickets... And I didn't get a job. Jobs would have taken too much time out of getting high," she said with a small, self-deprecating smile. "It was great, and most of the time we managed and she was a great kid when she wasn't too loud, but then she set the apartment on fire when she dropped a joint one day, my daughter, and we got thrown out of our home, and I was so _angry_ and, I...I knew I needed money and I needed a lot of it to get my television and my DVDs back, and I wanted to beat that little bitch until she was sorry enough so I wouldn't hate her any more, but then the fucking hysterical social workers would've taken her away from me again so I.." and here she closed her eyes, with such perfect dramatic timing that the second woman wondered if it was rehearsed, "I...I sold her."

"To...?"

"To the Bureau--they make it so  _quick_ and  _easy,_ it's a two-page form that's mostly boxes, and I..I really was fine for a while with it, I just had so much cash and didn't have to put up with all that crying, and I got a new place and got better at cooking. Until I went to jail--now that was bullshit," the first woman clarified. "I was  _not_ driving drunk, I was just high, and I drive  _fine_ while high--I  _drove_ fine. Never hit anything. Anyway, I was in there and then they searched my pockets and found barely a quarter ounce of weed, so of course I got longer and longer charges until my fucking pussy-- my _wimpy_ attorney just threw his hands up and wouldn't even try to fight. So while I was on a corn work crew, once I had finished feeling sorry for myself, I realized what I'd done and I wanted to make it better, I had to make it better, but...how? I didn't have any money, I didn't have any family, I barely had enough willpower to try and get out of bed and do all the chores they had us doing. And then after that, once I got out I felt so shitty I got high again but this time I started tripping, no idea why, and then this time they got me into one of those rehab houses instead, and there I found our savior Jesus Christ on Earth and realized I needed to make amends and explain myself, seek forgiveness, but when I couldn't find her and nobody wanted to help me I got high again..." she sighed heavily and sipped her tea through the straw delicately, keeping it poked at the bottom to suck up stevia, crunching it hideously loudly with her jaw. The second woman saw several shiny, newly repaired in her mouth and cataloged that, too.

"It went like that for years and years, until I finally found the right church that took me in instead of calling the cops or judging me. And now I've been with them for two years, I'm now stable enough to come and find my daughter and put right what I did wrong," she concluded. "I need to take her in and help her recover, too, help her forgive and move on. To witness to her the incredible power of Jesus Christ and to heal her in His name like I was healed, to help her become saved and reborn.."

She noticed the other woman's eyes glazing over, and took a breath. Not everyone  _understood_ God; that was okay, she knew. "Can you help me?"

"Why should I?" the other woman said bluntly. "Sounds to me you got so mad at your kid you sold her and now you feel bad about it."

"Please," she begged now, "please, I...I know it was horrible and the worst thing I've ever done. I regretted it the moment I could think clearly and I need to make up for it."

The second woman remained unconvinced, and stood up to leave.

"And I have three thousand dollars," she said. "Upfront, and more once I get to take her home with me!"

The second woman paused and clearly started recalculating. "Fine, but you have to understand one thing: your kid doesn't actually have to come with you once I find them. You have to treat them like an adult. I'm not going to take your money to help you abuse your kid."

"Sure, sure!" The first woman said, nodding hard. "I promise I will! All I want is to help her heal. I'd never harm a child," she said with deep sincerity.

"Then fine," The second woman said. "Three thousand upfront, and more for completion of the job."

"Why not five hundred upfront?" the first woman tried to renege, but when the second woman glared at her she shrank back. "Okay, okay, all of it upfront. I have more at home with my church."

She handed it over in a bag with murals of little bible stories cross-stitched into it, and the second woman's lip curled but she took it, heading into the bathroom to count it.

The third woman watched and watched, taking notes in her head.

* * *

 

Foggy woke up two hours early on Monday morning and groaned as quietly as he could, rolled over, and thought back to the dinner with Rosalind.

He had spent most of it juggling fighting down his boner from Matt being so beautiful and touching him and powerful and  _there_ and dealing with her horrific well-marketed shittiness, and he hadn't had much time to actually process the fact that she freely admitted she blamed  _Dad_ for her leaving him and Foggy. And the more he thought about it the more fucked-up and twisted and complicated it was, because...well, Foggy couldn't quite lie to himself, Dad  _had_ been a heroin addict then.

He knew; Dad didn't really talk about it until Foggy was sixteen and then he'd sat him down in the living room and launched into a whole long story about how growing up in a weird evil Christian cult (Dad didn't call it that, just 'strict parents' but Foggy knew damn well that there were 'strict parents' who made their kids always do their chores and not eat candy outside of holidays and 'strict parents' who beat their kids for 'unclean laughter' and made them fast for weeks to 'cleanse themselves' for masturbating) and then how he and his siblings had all fallen in with different bad crowds and how Dad had only done pills before he met Rosalind (Rose, Dad called her still, after everything) and promptly met some heroin dealer who gave him a discount in exchange for cash stolen from her, and how Dad had done it without thinking because he'd decided he was already going to hell for leaving the church. Dad had told Foggy about how he'd been so high that he honestly didn't remember getting Rosalind pregnant, how he had missed almost every appointment and certainly every sonogram, and how he'd been late to the birth. 

Dad had then gone on, very seriously, to describe how even as the stay-at-home father of a baby he hadn't been able to resist heroin, and had dialed back on snorting it to try and be more stable but how it had meant that finally Rosalind discovered him stealing from her and had thrown him and Foggy out on the street that day, divorced him in absentia, and only come back to him after he'd cleaned up his act after months homeless with a baby and gotten to know Anna. Then after dropping these bombshells, to Foggy's shock and horror, Dad had dragged him to a week's worth of daily Narcotics Anonymous meetings to learn about how everyone else there had gotten addicted and what terrible things they'd done to other people (which ranged from selling off their parents' car to their dealer to abandoning their dogs in hot cars to get high to disappearing on their families in the middle of the night to get high and getting reported missing _again_ ). 

Foggy had been aghast the entire time, and bewildered at the sheer inexplicably of it to his point of view. He had only ever known his Dad as a pragmatic, laced-up, low-key traditionalist who made his children not wear 'silly clothes' and scolded them for being too loud in the evenings and taught them how to make pancakes and fix locks. The idea that his Dad apparently used to use Foggy's diaper bag to smuggle cash to his heroin dealer and then heroin back to his house was so foreign to him that he could barely process the whole thing as reality. Dad had always been a good guy in Foggy's living memory, sometimes very embarrassingly Dadlike but never, never scary or neglectful or absent.

And Narcotics Anonymous had been an entirely different world as well, one where, as far as Foggy could tell, a lot of people who got addicted did because they had terrible childhoods and wanted to feel good for once and then were  _literally physically unable_ to stop. It was nightmarish and much more effective than those '90s movies about weed making you a loser that they had shown in his health class.

And now, as a semi-adultish adult, Foggy did have to admit to himself that discovering your spouse was stealing from you to do drugs and not take perfect care of your baby would be...upsetting, to say the least. He could even understand divorcing someone like that for the sake of your children--but that was so, so clearly not what Rosalind did or why she did it. Foggy couldn't imagine throwing someone out to make them homeless,  _especially_ with a baby, and he couldn't imagine not caring for your own baby either. (Dad had sheepishly admitted that Rosalind 'had no interest in taking care of you until you were at least ten, and I tried but Rose was immovable'.) Foggy thought about it, and about Rosalind's phrase  _he had unreasonable expectations of me_ , and he concluded that she'd been angry at the stealing, maybe, but definitely angrier at the idea that she had to be a mom. 

Foggy's lip curled.  _Suck it up, buttercup,_ he thought meanly at the version of her from twenty years ago. You didn't get to just  _do_ that, abandoning someone who needed you, no matter whether or not you  _liked_ caring for them or even them at all. He could admit to himself, in the silent privacy of the early morning, that he hadn't really liked Bee at all beyond 'makes Matt smile and laugh' and that in the early days he had liked Matt even less, but he had-- _tried_ , at least, to take care of them, even when it was hard. And they were arguably less helpless than a literal  _infant_. Who the fuck left a baby in the hands of an active heroin addict? Foggy felt amazed that he'd lived to completely forget all about it.

He eventually let his thoughts drift out to calmer avenues, retelling himself the baby stories that Dad told and remembering Candace's own infancy, and then he realized he could wake Matt up with coffee and maybe some cereal this time, and got up to pad around the apartment. Foggy shambled and stumbled, but soon enough it was time to wake Matt up, and he unlocked the shackles and...nothing. 

Matt rolled over, grumbling in his sleep, and Foggy blinked with surprise and then smiled. "Hey Matt," he said gently, putting his hand on his face, "Time to get up. I made coffee.."

And Matt's tongue darted out and  _licked_ him. 

Foggy almost jumped but held still. "Uh..buddy? It's time to get up..."

And then Matt's head twitched and he enveloped Foggy's thumb with his mouth, sucking softly and moaning in a terribly beautiful way, licking and swirling, and Foggy's entire body broke out in sweat, each pore pouring out at the same time, his mouth watering and his pajama pants denting. Fuck. 

Foggy pulled his finger out and winced, and then stepped back, trying to decide what to do. He didn't want to alarm Matt or wake him up by being afraid, but he couldn't...and he didn't even  _want_ to go forward and, and take advantage of how Matt was now shifting his hips in his sleep and moaning a little, one hand reaching down--

Oh God. Foggy turned and fled as silently as he could, getting to the kitchen, wiping his face with a damp, cold paper towel and shaking a little. He forced himself to take deep, deep breaths, and do what Miriam called  _seeing the facts_ : he had been trying to wake Matt up by gently cupping his face, because that usually worked just fine in the morning, and Matt had licked him, and Foggy had retreated the second he had started sucking, and now he was away from Matt and not touching him, not watching him rub himself in his sleep, not memorizing his hips...

No, no, no. Bad thoughts. Foggy did the visualization exercise they'd done once, imagining opening his mouth and having the bad thoughts fall out of his head and down the drain, far away from him, and then he took deeper breaths and tried to replace them with calm, objective evaluation. He was just being calm and steady, and he hadn't done anything to Matt, and he wasn't going to, and he  _didn't even want to_. No, Foggy only wanted Matt nowadays in dreams where Matt was wickedly smart and sharp-tongued, laughing with Foggy and tying him up with Wonder Woman's golden lasso so Foggy couldn't lie to him--

(Foggy's sexual imagination was, as always, a very weird place. His recent study-break excursions into the pro-BDSM anti-slavery origins of  _Wonder Woman_ comics had made it weirder.)

And not when he was completely unconscious and helpless. It was a relief when Foggy's stupid boner finally went down and he decided to just bring a mug of coffee into the room with himself, wake Matt up that way, and once he did Matt seemed completely unaware that anything had happened.  Foggy had the strange certainty that he was being completely and genuinely oblivious.

* * *

 

She woke up very suddenly and was aware in every capillary of her body, every cell and nook and cranny, in less than a second. Her head almost felt light from the adrenaline rush; why was Chastity shrieking outside the door? She listened, running through possibilities, necessities, how to get  _out_ of Wakanda if they needed to--

But then she listened, and realized it was Chastity's high girlish shriek of _joy_ , and then she heard Lydia's warm, happy laugh as she gave something to Chastity, and she relaxed. Lydia was perfectly safe; she was, in fact, one of the few people she trusted completely with Chastity's safety and happiness, one of approximately four she named in her secret will to take care of her sister upon her death. Lydia was bright, and warm, and  _strong_ in a way that was impossible to diminish, strong inside of herself and because of herself, strong even in the very worst circumstances that humans could be in, strong because she could be weak and then keep going anyway. Lydia was a former zombie, and she would almost certainly outlive everyone she knew.

Lydia was the sort of agent of the revolution that had to travel a lot and occasionally disappear from all communication channels. She didn't worry about it; Lydia always came back again, and so many freedom workers communicated asynchronously, anyway. And Lydia, when she returned from her travels, always brought  _presents_.

"YOU GOT ME  _ASPHYXIA?!_ IT'S BEEN DISCONTINUED FOR OVER A YEAR! I COULDN'T EVEN FIND IT ON EBAY! HOW DID YOU GET IT?!" Chastity started screaming in delight when she opened the next present, and Nobody smiled and sat up in bed. She needed more sleep, but she  _always_ needed more sleep; one of their secret doctors had told her once that she might oversleep the rest of her life, always trying to chase the sleep debt she'd had the first two and half decades of her life. She had shrugged and decided to just suffer, then, rather than give into the weakness of sleeping too much. 

She yawned, stretched, and went to open the door. Chastity was still jumping up and down and shrieking about how much she loved Lydia, she was the  _best_ auntie ever, the best ever ever, and then she saw her sister and stopped, putting together the fact that she was still wearing her soft layered pajamas (beige, cream, and dark grey; she always liked to wear boring colors when she slept alone or with her sister) and looked exhausted and still adrenaline-filled and visibly drooped. "Sorry, did I wake you up?"

"No, it's okay," Nobody assured her. And it  _was_ okay, and Lydia knew that too, or else she'd have steered Chastity away from the bedroom door before giving her the presents. It was good to know that Chastity could completely forget her surroundings, be overwhelmed with joy without worrying about who could hear it. It was  _good_ that her baby sister didn't need to muffle herself and quiet down and calculate for others all the time. "What else did Lydia get you?"

"She got me  _Asphyxia_ ," Chastity said proudly. She loved makeup, but only flamboyantly unnatural colors, and Asphyxia looked like one--a pale frosted purple, cold-lilac. "And she also got me another tube of  _Holly Jolly_ \--you know, the lipstick that I wear with my green dress? And a yellow, uh, it's called  _Citron_ ,to go with my sunflower dress, you know, the one that's black on top and just sunflowers below it? And then," and Chastity whirled around, "Lydia said there's one more!"

Lydia smiled magnanimously and handed one over. "Here's the last one for you, Chastity," she said, and Chastity ripped open the packaging to reveal an octagonal lipstick tube, which she pulled open, and then her eyes got  _huge_.

"Whooooooah," she breathed out, staring at it, and her sister stared too; it was almost painfully bright to look at. It shimmered in a stream of sunlight coming in through the window, and it glittered in a rainbow pattern that reminded her of childhood, of fashions gone by. "It's a  _holographic glitter lippie?_ " Chastity half-whispered, reverently. "I've never even  _seen_ any of these before!"

Lydia smiled widely. "I got it directly from the labs of Jeffree Star. It's going to be called  _Aphrodite's Kiss_ , and it'll be avaliable in next year's New Years collection."

"What the fuck, really?" Chastity said, eyes so huge it was almost--she put away the memories it evoked, of people with eyes that big. "It's not even  _going to be out for almost a year_?"

"Yep. He makes all the formulas early, you know?" Lydia said, and she was smiling too, with the pleasure of seeing an ex-slave so uncomplicatedly happy. Chastity almost jumped up to hug her; Lydia's body was very tall this time, Nobody finally noticed. Normally she barely paid attention to Lydia's body in private company; it didn't really matter then, anyways, besides showing if she felt comfortable or not. Right now she wasn't comfortable, but that was almost always true.

(Almost all other people did not seem to understand this, and could not read Lydia at  _all_. Even most other ex-slaves. But Nobody had found that most people were not chameleons to the extent that she and Lydia were, and even the ones who were were often idiosyncratically chameleon-like, to the point where they couldn't see past what  _this_ mask would mean for  _them_ versus what the same mask meant for someone else.)

She smiled as Chastity squeezed on tight and then turned and ran into the room to change and find an entire new outfit to build around one of the new lipsticks. Lydia shifted to be shorter, to be Nobody's precise height, in fact, and then rummaged in her purse to find another gift.

"Here," she said. "The others are for later, but right now, this is for you. I know you're not big on lipstick, but I think you'll like this one."

It was true, she thought in surprise, she wasn't really big on lipsticks, or on makeup. She wore it often to the point where she didn't really notice or think about it, because she'd perfected her three faces and didn't need to make more.

(The first face was Neutral Beauty, and featured a specific palette and soft pink lips that were outlined with a nude. The second was True Neutral, and that was almost the same, but with a perfect nude lipstick that made her face very boring to look at, almost nondescript. The last one she reserved for when she needed to use sex for the revolution, and it was the one that always lasted for the shortest amount of time. It was built to last despite various fluids and expressions, composed of top-of-the-line mascara, eyeliner, foundation, blush, concealer, blender, contouring, lipstick, lipliner, and setting spray, and it made all the sex tricks work just a little better. She did not like or dislike it, but she did remove it once she no longer needed it, at once.)

She opened up the package, and stared at the box it came it, and then slowly opened it up to smell it and see it. Her mouth opened with visible surprise.

"Is it really--is this--?"

"The Peggy Carter lipstick? Yep, it is, the same shade she still wears in her new apartment," Lydia said with a bright grin. 

(It had been  _criminal,_ that  _Peggy Carter_ had been put into a fucking  _nursing home_. Lydia had, among others, worked with their agents in SHIELD and various disability assistant agencies to get her moved into an apartment of her choice and have care that wasn't part of any institution. And Mrs Carter had been far the better for it, especially after her long-term partner Angie Martinelli had moved in as well.)

Nobody caressed the casing gently, and almost put it on immediately. It was so shocking, so beautiful, and so intensely, gorgeously red that she was tempted to never use it, to keep it in perfection. But that was silly. 

(She and Lydia had once bonded over their complicated admiration of Peggy Carter. On the one hand, she was a free woman, and a free woman who had fought for the United States, and a free woman who had worked for and headed a spy agency...and on the other hand, she had been bold and strong, and they took inspiration from her tendency to hit people in the face with staplers, and she almost certainly had known of their infiltration into SHIELD and had approved of it entirely.

They had also bonded over how Lydia was, at first, the only person who truly understood the _urgency_ and  _necessity_ of their hormones, and had gotten it for her and her sister without question, and secured them surgeries and hormone-dispensing implants without a single "are you  _really sure"_. Because she  _understood._ )

She smiled very widely and patted Lydia's arm in a friendly way. She had too much adrenaline still to hug anyone when she didn't have to. "What's your body going to be for your visit?" she asked. She had to know what the new default was to measure deviations from it.

Lydia hummed. "Well, it's tall," she said, reverting to the height she'd had before, "And the face is like this," and she smoothed out her facial features more, flattening her nose and widening her face. "And the hair's the same," and that made sense, her hair was blue and blonde in tight box braids; it'd be more difficult to change. "Oh, and the skin's a teensy bit warmer and darker," and she changed it minutely, "He doesn't have cameras in these rooms, by the way. Or in this hallway."

She was surprised; most people who reassured her that she didn't have to worry about cameras meant that either there were cameras, there were cameras and they didn't think they were something to worry about, or that there were cameras but they didn't remember them. She had assumed T'Challa would be the same way.

"Huh," she said. Lydia smiled at her a little quizzically. 

"Good 'huh'," she explained.

Lydia relaxed a little, and then suddenly added, "Oh, and I have a giant dragon tattoo. Why not?"

Why not indeed.

* * *

Matt felt a deep relief at the sheer normality of the day. 

He woke up to Foggy having already made coffee, which grated on him when he was already stressed ( _you stupid slut you can't even make my coffee right so I have to do it myself_ ) ( _Matt, honestly, it's a coffee order, I don't understand how you can get it wrong, it's the same for sir_ every _day_ ) but now felt routine due to him going through more than a couple of nights where Foggy had had a flare-up of his insomnia. Every time it happened Foggy would get up and make them coffee and often bagels, too, before he got Matt up, and then he'd slowly wind down to exhaustion throughout the day until he fell asleep or at least lay down without any work to do before dinner. Then after dinner he'd curl up in bed and watch musicals or an Alexander Farragut movie, and then he'd become more and more tired until he could barely get up to brush his teeth. Most of the time he did eventually fall asleep and then slowly catch up to it during the next few nights, especially if there was a weekend, but he'd be sluggish and somewhat fragile until he recovered all the way.

Matt didn't mind, really--it didn't seem to truly affect Foggy's studying or his performance beyond making him work a bit slower and have to restructure when he did his assignments, it wasn't the kind of condition that required Matt to do and endure unpleasant things to relieve tension, and it wasn't dangerous because it was very well handled. Foggy was very strict about the sleep hygiene that made a difference for him, and often used cycles of melatonin to encourage his body to remember to sleep. He didn't have any more intense or dangerous medications to handle it because of his father's heroin addiction, and so Matt was hardly affected at all, since Foggy had explained that being in the same dark room with a sleeping person (he meant slave, but Matt didn't argue) helped him sleep too.

He made sure to watch out for Foggy during the morning and take his cane with him to the campus so Foggy wouldn't try and guide him as much as usual, and let Bee and Trish walk next to him and not to Foggy so Foggy wouldn't have to think about being careful not to touch them, and he frowned as they approached the first building they needed to get into and heard a loud crowd of people chanting, " _What do we want_?"

"FREEDOM FOR EVERYONE!"

" _When do we want it_?"

"NOW!"

He stopped and listened, and let Bee crane their neck and peer around the front and back buildings, and Trish voiced for them, "Uh, they're on all sides, blocking all the doors. I don't see a way in."

Matt stopped and took a breath. "Maybe they'll let us in--?" he suggested, but the way they all fell into a hush as he spoke made him wince and then put on a calm mask the way Summer had when they had to drive past protests on the way to parties or into military bases. 

"Crossing my fingers," Trish said, not interpreting this time, and Foggy added sotto voce, "Oh, I'm crossing  _everything,"_ and Matt laughed softly before steeling himself again.

He held onto Foggy and walked forward, and surprisingly, Bee huddled close to him and walked with them. "It'll be fine," he murmured to them both. "I know how to handle this. We just have to walk in like they couldn't possibly stop us," and he strode forward, making sure his shoulders were high and his body less demure than usual. Summer had a walk just for these sorts of things, one with her head held high, and she had helped him to practice again and again until he got it precisely right.

("Take a tool out, use it, and put it away. It's just that simple, child," and her long fingernails scratching at his cheek, affection and threat all at once.)

Matt listened hard to everyone in the crowd, their body language, if they were holding guns or weapons, if they were filming anything, if any of them was boiling with violence. Most of them were packed tight, and that made it hard to tell, precisely, but to their credit nobody seemed like an obvious plant designed to escalate things to the point of rioting.

Matt stopped walking when Foggy did, unable to drag him forward. The protesters had gone silent.

"Nobody goes past this line," one of them declared, "This is a protest for human rights, which everyone deserves, no exceptions!" and Matt's jaw clenched and then he straightened up minutely, wanting to fight. It surprised him--life had taught him how to lose how many times now?--but he wanted to slap the little note of smugness right out of the boy's mouth, maybe break his jaw. The wet snap- _crunch_ would be so sweet. 

Matt pushed down that thought, alarmed but having no time for it, and then said very dryly, "You're protesting slavery...by not allowing a slave and a former slave to go to their classes in law school?"

The protestors shifted, uneasily, and one of them said, "Guys, maybe we can make an exception?"

Matt took note of her. She sounded small and young, maybe an undergrad and not a 1L, and he smiled warmly at her. She said again, in a smaller, squeakier voice, "Seriously? I mean, he's not..."

"Judy, Jesus Christ--" the one from earlier said, annoyed now, and Matt cleared his throat.

"Please, we're coming through," he said calmly. "Just let us through and we'll be out of your hair."

"I don't think so," the smug one said, stepping forward. His breath stank of stale potato chips, and Matt wanted to rip his head off. 

(Summer had done that once. It had been...singular.)

But then a different voice piped up, fairly androgynous, and a woman-?- pushed forward. "Vincent, step back. Let's let them through, just him and I...I guess the guy who's guiding him?"

"That's Foggy Nelson, he's in my Punjabi class," one boy from the side called out. "He's kind of nice, I guess."

"He is nice, unless you're a dick to Matt," a different girl said, irritably. "Trust me, he helps me walk back to my dorm room sometimes."

"But he--"

"Yes, I know," the androgynous-voiced person piped up. Matt could tell that they were thin enough that he couldn't put a good guess on probable gender. "But look, why make a protest against slavery end up hurting people who are slaves or who just were?" the person argued eloquently. "Let him, the guy guiding him through, and the other person."

They went to walk forward, except then the crowd tried to block Trish, and Matt frowned. "Trish needs to come too."

"No she doesn't," the smug guy said, and then jumped at Bee's artificial phone-voice saying, "She's my interpreter, you stupid fuck."

The guy's mood darkened, his blood pressure going up, and Matt readied himself to step in front of Bee, but the androgynous voice came to the rescue again. "Vince, seriously. Let them all through, and quickly, before the newspapers get here."

"The  _newspapers_?" Foggy muttered, and they hurried through the poorly-coordinated parting crowd. 

"I'm sure it will be the historical protest of the century," Matt said acidly as they got inside the building itself. "Thousands of slaves will fall on their knees in gratefulness and suck Vincent's cock till the sun comes back up. Millions will applaud their bravery and preserve their heroism in ballads that will last for millennia."

Bee's shoulders shook in their silent laughter, and they squeezed Matt's side and then stepped away. As it turned out, nobody else managed to get through to class, not even the professor, so Matt ended up stroking Foggy's hair once as he took an impromptu nap and getting a head start on reading, while Trish played some sudoku on her phone and Bee hummed and watched a show about a gorilla learning to sign.

* * *

 

The photographer hummed, adjusting his camera. He was happy with his shots, and was considering which newspaper would pay the most for them. The  _New York Times_ would probably be the best combination of exposure and money, and they might even offer him a job afterwards. He knew his boyfriend Calvin would be very happy at having a second source of income, and it would mean he wouldn't have to be the sole person cleaning up after them. 

He smiled as he walked away from the scene of the suicides. The corpses were already starting to reek; they looked so ugly now, not like in his photographs. He thought about how he would narrate the process of taking the pictures, what he would name them;  _The Falling Girls_? No, no, too on-the-nose; instead,  _The Loving Suicides_ sounded like a much better idea. After all, in the first set of pictures the two girls were staring into each other's eyes, holding hands, completely focused on each other, gazing in adoration, throwing away their collars, and then jumping, still gazing at each other in the air, and in the second they were still holding hands as they lay on the crushed car, beautiful and still. They looked peaceful, happy almost.

(After the first volley of shots they had screamed and screamed with terror, flailing, and their bodies were crumpled and crushed now that people had moved them, trying to cover them up. It _ruined_ the image, he thought. It was a  _travesty._ )

He deleted the pictures of them screaming, eyes wide, regretting the fall--not good for the narrative--and put his earbuds in as he headed to his rented studio, humming along to  _Shake It Off_.

* * *

 

Later that night, she got to actually  _see_ it.

Lydia was drunk and laughing, sitting on the couch near Chastity, doing a new kind of nasty shot that made Nobody's nose wrinkle, if she let it. It was made of Red Bull and vodka and some type of citrus liqueur and licorice whiskey and it was  _nasty_ , and Lydia loved it, and so did Chastity, for all that she was loudly complaining about it. Nobody wasn't drinking; she didn't except for reasons unrelated to fun, and she liked to only have fun around Lydia, especially on the storytelling-nights they had with her. Even though her fun meant being  _fussy_ and  _meticulous_ and  _straightlaced_ , as Chastity fondly teased her about.

Unfortunately, this was the moment T'Challa came and knocked on the door. She looked up, surprised--this wasn't quite their private quarters, none of them counted anything in the palace as  _theirs_ and even if they had, the living room at the end of the hallway didn't count--and then got up to open the door. He had only two Dora Milaje with him, which was surprising; usually there were three to ten with him at all times.

"I'm sorry if I'm intruding--I heard a new guest wanted to see me?" he asked, in that polite way. And it was nice, she felt, that he was the sort of person to say things like  _I'm sorry if I'm intruding_ , because while a veneer of politeness could be very rude indeed she knew a level of...thoughtlessness that came with never even bothering with the veneer, because you were talking to a thing and not a person you had to lie to.

"I did!" Lydia said warmly. "C'mon, there was a story I wanted to tell him," she told Nobody, and she jerked her head at the armchair inside. "Come on in, we've got gross shots and Sprite, if you're a square like her sister!"

She paused and then went and sat back down where she'd been earlier, which was at the reading nook. She wasn't reading much of anything at all, just some gossip magazines, and those were to scratch an old itch-- _he gets mad if I don't know what's going on, he thinks it's unfeminine_ \--and this time, she read nothing whatsoever, and simply listened to Lydia as she began her story. 

This one was pretty funny, all things considered--Lydia getting captured by the CIA in the process of stealing paperweights from the FBI as part of the poke-the-bear operations that they did regularly on intelligence agencies was pretty hilarious by itself, mostly because it took a CIA agent who was faceblind and recognized people by their  _footsteps_ to catch her, and then because they were apparently so confused by her that they ended up  _incompetently waterboarding her_ \--which--

"How do you even do that?" Chastity asked, howling with laughter. Nobody's shoulders were shaking, too.

"I don't even know!" Lydia chortled. "I don't! You just need a fucking t-shirt and a Dasani water bottle, Fiji if you want to go fancy! These, these fucking nincompoops couldn't even do it right!"

Nobody said, through her giggles, "Maybe--maybe that's why they keep giving them less and less zombies every year, because they don't want to waste them on  _incompetent waterboarding techniques!_ "

More laughter abounded, loud and belly-deep, and even T'Challa looked like he was laughing involuntarily, from the social infectiousness of it all. He did look distinctly uncomfortable, however.

"So then, so then, right, when it got them nothing--and they have nothing, they  _are_ nothing, you see," Lydia was explaining, "They sent in the rape squad. And it's always the easiest escape point, right, the rape squad, because either they get distracted or someone gets squeamish about them, yeah?" 

Nobody nodded; it was true. Even though most people were comfortable with some type of rape to some type of people in some type of circumstances, it was equally true that for most people  _some_ type of rape would be gross. It would be unsanitary, or nasty, or nauseating, or too far, or unnatural, or something that made them squeamish about it. 

(For some rare, precious people, it was  _all rape_. And for some other ones grossness had nothing to do with it. Nobody was one of the lattermost.)

"So they send in the first dude, and he gets in me, right, and I've been trying to think up how to rattle this guy, because I know he's been watching for hours now behind the mirror. Do they really think people think that's a mirror? Why the fuck would there be a _mirror_ right there?" She rants, and then takes another nasty shot and then pauses. "Anyway, so he's in, and I know the perfect thing to say. He gets in, and I feel his balls, and I say... _hey, are you in all the way?_ "

Nobody shrieks with laughter alongside Chastity and Lydia, and she keeps going until there's tears in her eyes, real tears and not forced ones, and when she's done Lydia continues, stopping to guaffaw every few words: "And so, and _so_ , then after he's done all blushing and shit, he gets out a belt--a real belt, like this is fucking  _Secretary,_ all right, and he gives me a scar,  _like that shit's gonna bother_ me, all right? And then I get to go to the infirmary because of fucking infection vectors and shit-- _literally!_ \--and that's how I get out," she finishes triumphantly. 

She notices T'Challa was not laughing at all now. "Come and see the scars!" Lydia declared, and stands up and yanks down her pants to show, and-- well. They're big, bold, keloided scars, which means she's letting them happen on _purpose_.

(Lydia's skin naturally always keloids, unless she prevents it. Normally she doesn't have scars unless she's punishing herself or using them for a purpose.)

Nobody blinks. "You're drunk," she says, figuring out the game, and it _is_ fun. "Let me go and get you something from the kitchens. They've got some amazing dishes with cowpeas," and she gets up to give T'Challa an excuse to leave as well.

He follows her out, he and the Dora Milaje, and none of them are laughing. She rolls her shoulders and pauses to let him lead, because she doesn't want to be rude, and also because Lydia's presence loosens her up enough that she forgets precisely where the kitchens are for a minute. 

She watched T'Challa as they walk, and they get to a small kitchen where she recognizes a few leftovers in the fridge and gets them out to start reheating. She's not lying about the cowpea-based dishes--there's three she picks, two being desserts and one being a spicy delicious breakfast-dish that will make Lydia need to grow new taste buds to appreciate it--and then a few more that are mostly meat stews, and she starts putting them into the microwave and then onto a tray.

"I don't understand why that was a joke," T'Challa says after the second thing comes out. "Forgive me."

She doesn't, and then she does. She's like that. "What else are we going to laugh about?" he asks him instead, and sees his brow knit, and then on the inside she sighs. Sometimes there are some free people who understand the outline of what she means by this--usually ones who were under someone's thumb, or, more rarely, inside someone else's cage--but there are so many who just plainly don't understand why it can be funny. Why they say things like  _rape squad_ and  _rape o'clock_ and _marriage broken: just add rape_  and even  _the rape grapes_. 

Slipping into patience, she explains, "Every life needs a certain amount of laughter in it. People aren't...if you aren't laughing, you're surviving, and not very enjoyably so. What else are we going to laugh about? The latest fashion in cigarette holders? Alcoholic suburban mother memes on Facebook?"

T'Challa's face is still confused, but he is beginning to understand slowly. She elaborates, calmly and gently, leading him like a particularly stupid sheep, "During a person's life, during the terrible times, if they are not acute, if they will go on forever--you have to laugh, or scream, or shut up. Laughing is more fun. Do you understand?"

 _That_ he seems to get, for some reason. She finishes reheating dishes and put in serving spoons, and then turns to take the platter with one hand, balancing it expertly. "Besides, can you imagine some bigshot CIA interrogator getting all ready to feel like a big, bad man who has the super-special capacity to break a woman and then getting humiliated like that in front of his bosses? Can you imagine that? They probably replay the tape for him every lunch break. They probably put it in his performance review, and he has to explain that his penis is a normal size and he didn't mean to get caught off-guard. He's probably already trying to buy penis pumps or something. He's going to be haunted by it _forever_."

The Dora Milaje are smiling widely, and now T'Challa is too.

"Yep," she said. "That's  _justice_."

It's not, but it'll work, for now.

* * *

 

Most versions of Summer hated tasks like this. 

She didn't really  _hate_ things in most incarnations of herself, but with this specific Sir she absolutely did, because he needed someone to hate things with and for him. He required a partner in despising sex, little rat dogs, and New York City, among other things, and she fulfilled it like she did all his needs: joyfully and fully, better than anyone else could.

She also hated things that he didn't need her to hate, because that was what this Summer did, in this universe and this fate, with this owner and on this day: pointless, stupid tasks that wouldn't turn out to do anything other than piss off the person who gave her the tasks, because that was her life now. Granted, most of her lives had involved doing pointless nonsense at least some of the time, but some of them had been  _exciting_ , including this one.

(Training Matt had been very, very exciting. It was such a fun challenge, and it was  _constant_ , and she had to pretend that most of her efforts  _didn't even exist_ until she got to dramatically reveal them. It had been pure delight, working with him. He even did what you told him to do once you'd molded him that way, and that was far more than some of the trainees she'd had had done.)

(So had been Nazi-hunting. _That_ was some of the greatest fun of her life, and she was eternally grateful for getting to do it.)

The problem with this task was that Sir did not, frankly, understand the pointlessness of it, and that was because he did not understand that the purpose of the Bureau of Slavery was to allow for useless morons to have jobs and receive paychecks for tormenting slaves in old and dull ways and let exceptionally superfluous human-shaped spittoons draw slightly larger paychecks and waddle around with delusions of political relevance and/or power while tormenting slaves in _new_ and dull ways.

The fact that it was the sort of position that ended with most of its occupants being mocked beyond the grave was no accident; it was a highly mockable thing, to be the Director of the Bureau of Slavery. It was a joke in and of itself, an insult with enough power to inspire people to hire hitmen. The sort of people who reacted to being offered the position by  _accepting_ it instead of challenging the offerer to a duel were walking hemorrhoids-- social bedpans-- complete and utter failures. She could not  _reason_ with failures.

But here Summer was, walking into the building late at night, past rows of slaves with blank, already-dead faces and getting into an elevator and using the pickpocketed key to control it and force it up to the Director's office. Then she forced the doors open and walked in smiling, even though she wanted to commit arson just by seeing the office. It had  _all glass doors_ , and she could tell that they weren't even safety glass. 

The incompetence was  _staggering_. 

The new Director--very new, six days new, as a matter of fact, and a man this time, though that hardly mattered--looked up. She opened up the door. 

"Hello, sir," she said with a soft voice. It was a seductive voice, the fifteenth one, not that she thought it would make any bit of difference. A Director was likely, if not certain, to be a sexual sadist, and the sort of sexual sadist that primarily enjoyed having their filthy activities revolve around the  _sadism_ rather than the  _sexual_ , and she was not about to let herself be hurt. She wasn't allowed, was what she meant.

(Not like they  _could_ hurt her. They could  _hurt_ her but not hurt  _her_ , so to speak.)

"I'm with your nine o'clock?"

The Director's face blinked all at once. He was very bony, and very ugly, and she was completely unsurprised. He looked rather like a shaved, starving bear. If he wandered the woods of Canada they'd think he was a werewolf. "Excuse me?" he demanded.

"I'm with your nine o'clock, sir," she said softly. "I'm here to elaborate on the offer made."

Because Sir had made some offers, and they were  _good_ offers, and he hadn't understood what went wrong. He thought it was that they were the wrong offers, was the thing, and she knew differently, understood with a clarity he would later acknowledge and would therefore exist later--that the Director was one of those people who were simply too stupid to possibly be manipulated. That type of idiot was rare, but they were in a way perfectly adapted to their lives, because they could not be manipulated in the slightest, and they were very, very stupid.

"You're not allowed in here. Where's my security guards?" he demanded in that same ugly tone, and she resisted the urge to explain to him that they were  _slaves_ and therefore would not prevent any sort of assassination attempt,  _ever_. 

"Sir, my owner has allowed me to make a further offer and explain more of our--"

"Shut up, bitch," he said, and she smiled a slow, mean, jagged smile, a big girlmonster smile that he didn't have the brains to be scared of. Sir would be _pleased_ when she told him about how she'd killed the Director now that he'd hear that he said  _that_ to her. "Now you're going to shut up and get on your stupid fucking knees and I'm going to make my security get in here and teach you a fucking lesson, and then that owner of yours is going to pay _big time_ , there is a  _procedure_ for this--"

She walked forward a total of ten steps and reached for his head. In one hand she cupped his jaw and in a neat second hairline-fractured it right next to the nerve, and in the other hand she cradled his skull and began to apply pressure. First a little, and then more and more and more, laughing softly at first and then more and more manically and fey as his skull began to buckle and  _break_ under her hand, and his useless arms were flailing but she was so, so much stronger than him, stronger than he could ever be, strong enough to keep him in place and make him hold still and not let him reach a phone and it felt so very good to make the bones crunch and the brain matter start to come out in gloopy chunks, blood and cerebrospinal fluid and bits of still-pink brain leaking out through her fingers, and she squeezed and squeezed until it exploded so, so slowly.

And then she ripped off his jaw and out his tongue for good measure, and laughed while he convulsed. Normally she'd rip out the medulla, but this time she just wanted to watch him die a bit slower. She prolonged it, even giving him CPR for a practical measure, and then she stretched and turned.

A security guard  _had_ come up, but had done nothing except watch. She smiled at the guard, waved, and turned to show her breathtaking vibranium collar. "Fancy helping me with the meat clean-up?" she asked him cheerfully, and he cracked what was probably the first smile in months, and walked over with stiff, jerky movements that meant nerve damage.

She shook out the bits of brain mucus from between her fingers and got to work getting rid of the corpse.

* * *

 

Bee began to walk home that night in a state of contentment.

Because of the strange free time offered by two of their classes not happening due to the protestors, Matt, Trish, Foggy and them had ended up mostly just sitting around inside the lecture hall and catching up on readings, Candy Crush, sleep, and homework for most of the day, and then afterwards they had all hung out in a warm, comfortable togetherness that Bee didn't often have. They sat in a small corner of the on-campus coffeeplace and did work and work and work, and it was so nice to have a brain that had space for things that weren't food or when its next beating would be, because now they had food all the time and no beatings in sight. Bee enjoyed the rhythm of it and the knowledge that they were actually  _ahead_ now and would probably get actual good grades this semester and also have time to have the days when they just needed to watch dumb television and not think or feel or do.

And then dinner was good--a type of soup with soft, soft meat and vegetables, and then apple juice and mashed potatoes for feeling full and having vitamins or whatever, and lots of it--and then they weren't even afraid of the dreams they might have, the ones about Summer and her hands. Emilia had said they weren't something to worry about, and Emilia always told people when things really  _were_ something to be worried about, and so Bee wasn't afraid of it any more. Just like the cigarette burn scars or needing Anthea, it was just from the cunts and nothing more. It meant nothing. 

Bee was walking away from Matt, and halfway to their dorm when suddenly someone--something? Hit them from behind and they staggered, twisted, and they recognized the face--the boy that had told them to smile, the idiot one, and he was snarling something and ripping off their bag and throwing it and then ripping off their shirt and they were frozen, paralyzed-- fuck--

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to be back so late, I had to graduate from things and sleep for days like some sort of large cat and deal with what is likely seasonally induced depression and several Health Problems. (Do not worry, I am not dying or likely to be any time soon!)
> 
> Chapter title taken from David Shrigley's "my hell", visible here: http://visual-poetry.tumblr.com/post/95004839075/my-hell-by-david-shrigley
> 
> 'The Loving Suicides' is based off of the actual photograph of the suicide of Evelyn McHale, called "The Most Beautiful Suicide"; though reportedly her actual body was horrifically damaged by her suicide method and stopped looking so peaceful once she was moved.
> 
> 'Holly Jolly' and 'Aphrodite's Kiss' are not, to my knowledge, real lipsticks. It is a tinsel-bright evergreen lipstick, for the record. Asphyxia (by Urban Decay), Citron (by NYX Cosmetics, in their Macaron Lippies collection), the sunflower dress (by eShakti), and Red Velvet by Besame all are real products, however. Red Velvet is also the real lipstick used by Peggy Carter in the Peggy Carter series, as confirmed by her actress Hayley Atwell on Twitter.


	140. my heart shall sing of the day you bring, let the fires of your justice burn

_Years Earlier_

They were in a car, and Summer was incredibly pissed.

Matt remained silent, knowing that right now he had absolutely no liberties to take. She wasn't often even angry, much less the deep kind of anger he could almost hear boiling inside her, but when she was she was at  _least_ as bad as when she was darkly amused, and often worse. So he stayed silent and still, blood drying and itching on his legs.

It wasn't any of his blood.

"You had a look," she said suddenly, breaking the silence. "On your face, in the store. A strange look for a moment when he first talked to you--the one in the baseball cap. What was that?"

Matt tried to remember, but his brain stopped short, refusing to go back any further than the sickening sound of Summer cutting their heads off and shoving them in the kitchen trash. He couldn't even think about it properly, comprehend anything about it.

"Think and then speak," she insisted. "What was that look? Matthew, that's an order."

His mind quivered and wrenched, and then he blurted out, "I--I had a bad feeling. About the man."

"Why? Did he say anything?"

"I don't know," he said, "I don't know, not--not anything noteworthy. He said good morning, that was all, and I, lots of people do that here." It felt weird, but was objectively not all that strange, Summer had told him. People in rural places were often friendly to slaves. 

"What kind of bad feeling?" she pressed. "Answer, Matt."

"He didn't feel right," Matt said slowly, trying frantically to be good. "He felt--I wanted to get away from him right then and there. Right away. I don't know why. I, I just thought it was nothing."

There was a horrible dead silence for a minute apart from the road outside and the engine of the stolen car, and then Summer sighed deeply. "Dear child," she said softly, with the fond exasperation that made Matt want to rip his skin off, that made the little cave inside his head get colder with rage, made the devil sneer, "When you have that sort of thing--that sort of intuition--you must pay attention to it. Human animals like us also have these instincts, and they are meant to be honored. You're not to be rude or break rules, of course, but you have to pay attention to such feelings and act on them. Do not dismiss them."

Matt nodded, hanging his head. He felt a little confused. "I didn't know what was wrong. I can't--he acted normal--"

"I don't care that you didn't know," she snapped. "You'll be punished for what few of your actions were your fault later. Don't bring it up at all until tomorrow morning at the least, and we'll go over precisely what you did wrong then. Until then your guilt is irrelevant and I refuse to deal with it for you until later."

Matt bit off a protest--he hadn't been trying to talk about guilt, he had just meant that he was confused--but he shut up instantly. He had long since learned that Summer defined reality, not him. Impertinence was worse than pointless.

"Besides," she said after another cold silence, "That's how this works. If there's any reason you won't know till long afterwards."

Then there were sirens, and Matt went cold.

"Shut up and stay silent. I'm handling this," she ordered Matt and pulled over. While they were there, he realized with utter terror that she didn't have her license, written permission from Sir, or the car's registration. Neither of them had any identification at all, apart from their collars, and his was basic silk. Hers, though, was one of her special ones, with teardrop diamonds--

His thoughts were interrupted by the officer coming over to the window. "Evening, missy," he said with a grin. "Do you know why I pulled you over?"

She already had her hands outside of the widow, on the door, and was smiling easily. How could she be  _smiling_? Matt thought, mind blank with terror. They were going to be in so much trouble, they would--he would be executed, hung, made an example of--she would be--

"I'm so sorry, sir, I don't," Summer said, sweet and charming.

"Well, your back tailight's broken," he said. "Don't suppose you know anything about that?"

"I don't, I'm sorry, sir," she said. 

"Huh," he said. "License and registration, please."

At her complete lack of movement, he raised an eyebrow. Matt could barely hear enough to focus on it, his heart thudding frantically, ricocheting off his ribcage. It sounded like a gong, like a scream, over and over again.

"Is this even your car?" the officer asked.

"No, sir. It belongs to the guy I killed and stuffed in the trunk," she said, a joking note in her voice. The officer paused and in that pause Matt felt like he was going to die from it, and then the officer burst into laughter. 

"Ha!" he said, after he'd finished hooting and howling with deep belly laughs. "That's great. That's good. Well, make sure your owner knows that you gotta have the registration, even though it's his car," he said. "And get that tailight fixed."

"Of course, sir. I will," Summer said charmingly, and the officer laughed and turned around. He was still snickering and mumbling to himself about the 'joke', and then he got in and drove away.

Summer calmly put her hands back in the car, flicked hair out of her face, and started back up. The body in the trunk rolled a little when she got back on the road, and she smirked at Matt as he gaped at her.

"Honesty is  _sometimes_ the best policy," she said with a smug little grin. "And really, I've already killed six people today, a seventh would be just the cherry on top of this ridiculous spectacle of a day."

They drove on in silence. Matt was shaking by the time they got back to Sir's house.

* * *

 

Calixto Navarrez sighed deeply as she considered her options. 

Steve Rogers was a very frustrating person to try and look after. He was depressed, and rather understandably so--his entire world was gone, and to him it had just been there only last month. But that wasn't the frustrating part, not really. 

SHIELD wasn't looking after him particularly well, either. Calixto had long since noticed that the agency cultivated an attitude that psychologists and time off were for lazy people or people who had truly horrific breakdowns, ones where they couldn't pick themselves up afterwards, like Mike from Analysis when he'd come in to work and tried to hang himself in his office on his lunch break. They gave agents and assets psych evaluations which were easy enough to game, and occasionally mandated therapy for nonfunctional workers.

But as much sense as that attitude made to her--it wasn't like the Movement encouraged its members to go to therapy, either--there wasn't anything else to do the same job in SHIELD. There weren't mentors ready to teach you how to live, older figures who would come over and share a bottle of sparkling cider with you and listen to your horror stories and reassure you that things would be fine. Agents didn't cultivate a culture of giving each other little gifts and sharing food and offering up comfort and good listening ears. SHIELD heads didn't seem to carefully structure in time off for every mission, no matter how difficult, nor did they radiate an aura of  _it's okay that you're fucked up, we all are, you're still good_. And while some medications were easy enough to get--certain SSRIs, sleeping pills, and varities of stimulants--others were heavily frowned upon, especially anxiety medications and anti-psychotics.

(The Movement's stance was, basically, that they would not make you take any damn pills, but that if you wanted or needed them then you would get them. No muss, no fuss.)

Calixto couldn't be friends with the vast majority of other SHIELD agents, and she had mostly chalked that up to her background, but even Rogers didn't seem to be inundated with friendly offers and requests for meetups and gifts to make him feel welcome, which was downright bizarre. People should have been lining up to make him feel welcome, to guide him into his new world and make sure that he was doing alright in it. Nobody came with him to medical, or stopped over at his home to give him food, or offered him a day with their dog to play with. It was very cold and isolated, with a byzantine organizational structure that was efficient for operating overseas and domestically but not good at keeping everyone sane and on an even keel.

It was very odd that an international spy agency was much worse than an informal revolution at giving mental health care, she thought. 

But that wasn't even the truly frustrating part. No, the frustrating part was that Rogers seemed to be believe the exact opposite to one of her most fundamental philosophies, and it pissed her off but good. Calixto had lived a mostly terrible life, and expected a lot of the rest of her life to also be terrible. What it had taught her was that when you needed to do something unpleasant, you shut up and did it without complaint, and all the rest of the time you greedily snatched any pleasures that might come your way, regardless of how small they were or how vulgar. If it meant you took ecstasy at a club when you were eleven and spent a rare night off dancing with joy, or you kept a Captain America comic under your bed and re-read the same story every night, or you just asked for your IHOP pancakes with blueberry syrup because it was delicious, you did it. And you didn't look back. Calixto knew this to be fact, and grabbed at as many pleasures as she could in her life; she wore sparkly jewelry, watched and re-watched older sitcoms like  _Seinfeld_ because she loved them, and slept in a bed layered with dozens of pinks in the sheets and pillowcases and comforter. She ate as much expensive food as she could justify to SHIELD and drank delicious cold juices, and she danced naked after showers when she had the time. 

Rogers, on the other hand, seemed to think that pleasure was some sort of indication that you were a filthy anti-American terrorist, or something, because he rejected it violently. His apartment was cold and bare; he had a week's worth of clothing, three SHIELD-supplied books (propaganda, really), a coffee maker, a tiny pot's worth of kitchen tools, two sets of cutlery, a glass, a single small mug, and a fridge full of diner takeout and SHIELD-certified nutrient-filled soups and smoothies. He kept the thermostat off, refusing to use heat on cold nights or A/C on hot days, and he didn't seem to like  _anything_. 

Calixto would have mistaken his trips to a cafe and his cups of coffee there as an indulgence, except that when he went there with a tiny sketching pad and a single pencil, he never smiled. Not at the waitress who flirted with him--though she wouldn't have judged if women, sex, or flirting weren't his things--and not at the skyline. He acted like he deserved nothing good in his life, and it made her furious because if  _he_ didn't deserve a damn thing then she didn't either, and she couldn't let those kinds of thoughts into her head.

She sighed and sat down next to him in the cafe. "This is hellish," she said. "Watching you make yourself miserable for no good reason. I'm not going to put up with it."

Rogers opened his mouth, and she continued. "It's awful. You're going to get scurvy at this rate."

"I drink orange juice every morning," he protested.

She stared at him directly. "You drink a tiny glass of the cheapest orange juice at the grocery store, which you hate because it's neither full-pulp that tastes fresh or no-pulp that's smooth and delicious. You grimace afterwards."

"How do you know I don't just like cheap orange juice?" he asked her.

"Because you hate everything you've surrounded yourself with and start off every morning I see you miserable and end every day more miserable," she said irritably. And it was true; she'd known other slaves with terrible taste, but they actually  _enjoyed_ cold showers and leftover takeout and minimalistic decorations.

He frowned, and she wanted to strangle him. "Come on. I have a plan. First we're going to the biggest library here and you're picking out twenty books on modern things that you've missed--any subject, I don't care--and I'm going to pick out five movies that are central to pop culture, and then we're going to my favorite sushi restaurant and you're having the entire tasting menu, which I  _know_ you can eat. And then we're going to the grocery store and I'm going to buy you a week's worth of new, good things, and then you're going to stop acting like you're a puppy you have to kick or else damsels will all die. It's depressing me. No Eeyores allowed."

He smiled at her, and stood up slowly. "That's what he used to call me," Rogers said, longing and fondness and tragedy and ache in his tone. "He'd point it out in the comic strips, say,  _hey, that's you! Just as gloomy!_ "

"Who did?" she asked gently, coaxing him.

"Bucky," Rogers explained, looking downtrodden again. "My best--my friend." She blinked, recognizing it from the comic book; Bucky hadn't seemed real to her then.

She walked next to Rogers. "Tell me about him," he said. "While we walk."

 

* * *

 

Lydia snuck out of the guestroom at five in the morning, tiptoeing quietly. She knew it was pointless, because the floor started to creak anyway, but she had the old ingrained instinct to be quiet. Marianne was sitting on her brown couch, a huge upholstered monster that was one of the most comfortable things Lydia had ever sat on in her long life.

"Plates are in the oven," Marianne said, watching some quiet baking show while knitting what looked like yet another sweater, mint and lilac yarns being fed into her needles. She moved her fingers quickly and ceaselessly, always making things, always restless. "There's poutine, hashbrowns with fried eggs, and duck confit. And there's dozens of leftovers in the fridge, I know you need more calories."

Lydia nodded. She really did; changing her body hurt and used up more energy than  _actual marathons_ , which Lydia had coincidentally run during one of her recent missions. It had been hell even with a carefully developed body to wear, long-legged and the kind of wiry muscle that runners needed. "Thank you," she said, pulling out the eggs and hashbrowns first and took the fork on the counter. The hashbrowns were purple potatoes, still-crisp, and the eggs deliciously runny in the yolk as she started to devour them standing right there. "How'd you know sunny-side-up is my favorite?" she asked as she chewed, too hungry to bother eating slowly. Besides, these fingers were used to being clumsier than most of her other sets.

"It's all your favorites," Marianne said. "Or else you like them all the way cooked, which isn't hard to do. Just flip it over," and her eyes were vague, watery, but she was beautiful to Lydia. She was wearing a sweater patterned with navy stars on white, a complicated pattern that she'd done over and over again until she'd perfected it. Lydia had been there then, helping out their newest agent and ensuring that she'd be comfortable and safe and not likely to have a complete breakdown and jump off a bridge.

"Thank you," she said sincerely after she had devoured the first plate and got out the poutine next. And she meant it; Marianne was an incredible help to the movement. She had come to them with bright tears in her eyes, and a quiet strength deep in her bones, and more than a little agoraphobia, and had said  _I can't kill anyone or be around more than two people, and I won't go back to anyone_.  _And I'm not good at lying._

What she _had_ turned out to be good at--to be better at than nearly anyone else, in fact--was creating and maintaining this little house, which stored some of the most important information in the entire movement, and served also as a sanctuary for all slaves that needed a break from fighting. It was always very cold in the area, but it was so lonely that nobody would even see you in the first place; the house was off of a road with no name, so isolated that the local police had no idea where to find it. The boxes of papers and USB sticks were entirely safe in linen closets and under guest beds.

It was also lined with coziness on every surface, from meticulously tatted lace tablecloths and doilies to the endless platefuls of leftovers that were free to anyone to devour and Marianne restocked daily to the shocking amount of brightly-colored blankets and cozies and hats and gloves and cardigans available to everyone who visited. There was an ever-present smell of sheep and pine and cinnamon and meat, and everywhere was warm and clean and safe. Marianne hated anything violent and never allowed more than  _at most_ four visitors at any one time, and she never begrudged anyone their privacy or need for company. Everyone who came was free to come sit with Marianne, be bundled into handmade blankets, be fed tea and stews and richly flavored food, sleep all day and all night, watch her quiet soothing television shows, and then be sent back off with a carload of sweaters and hats and gloves and blankets to take back to the rest of the movement. And everyone who took those breaks from the rest of the world came back restored and relieved, and quite a few of them took up sewing, knitting, crocheting, tatting, and quilting themselves, inspired by Marianne's complete control over her whole environment.

There were some rules at the house, but they were neatly taped onto every door, and they were simple:  _no work here._   _Don't touch the uncooked food. Don't drink from the wine cellar._   _Don't put anything in the laundry. Don't disparage my work._ They were all so easy to follow and so firmly enforced that almost every slave felt happy and comfortable there, and the few who didn't weren't resented.

Lydia, in fact, slept in her own Marianne-made sweater most bad nights, curled into it and gazed at the blue and white Fair Isle colorwork, and remembered that things were very different now. Thinking about the sheer amount of work that went into just that one sweater-- much less the dozens of others that she had given out to other operatives-- astonished her, and helped soothe her terror that there would be nothing left after they burnt the world to the ground. It simply wasn't true; there would be a lot of Mariannes who had waited out the storm, and other Mariannes afterwards to rebuild a world and teach things that weren't all lies. 

She was almost finished with the poutine and contemplating duck confit or going on a leftovers binge when her phone rang. She blinked at it and answered, utterly bewildered--everyone knew that after a serious mission that she wouldn't do anything but curl up somewhere, whether at Marianne's or a hotel room or another safehouse, for two weeks at the bare minimum, save truly insane emergencies.

"Yes?" she answered. Her voice was one of the ones that was actually hers, deeper than a lot of them and not nasal at all.

"Lydia?" a tiny voice whispered, with an accent that made Lydia want to swear. Fuck, fuck, it was Stacey Rae, one of her new baby operatives. Why was  _she_ calling? Lydia had fixed her up with a small assignment, infiltrating a hilariously incompetent little HYDRA cell and monitoring their progress towards implosion. It shouldn't have happened for at least a year, unless something truly had gone wrong.

"Darling, what's wrong?" Lydia answered, wincing at her leftover Wessex accent. "Do you need some help?"

"Please," Stacey Rae sobbed. "Please, I can't--I can't. I'm, I'm in the hospital and I can still pretend to be sleeping when they want to visit, but I can't do this anymore. I can't. It's too hard, I thought it would be fine, I'm just, I can't. I'm sorry I'm such a stupid fuckup, but I can't do this and I don't want to compromise anything!"

"Hey, shhh," Lydia said softly. "Take a deep breath, darling. It will be alright. Whatever's happened, it will be alright. I'm going to come down there, alright, starting right now, and then you'll be okay. I'll extract you."

"I'm sorry," Stacey Rae cried more. "I'm such a fucking fuckup, I'm so sorry. I know it's not a lot but, I just, I can't!"

"I know, I know. But you  _can_ wait two days for me. It will be okay. Two days, darling, and then you won't ever have to go back," Lydia coaxed. "Deep breaths. I'll be there. I'll call you in six hours for intel, but you just take deep breaths." She didn't waste her breath on reassuring the poor girl that she wasn't a stupid fuckup; getting drawn into arguments with people's insecurities was generally a bad idea, especially in a crisis situation. 

Stacey Rae begged her not to go, so Lydia turned the phone to speakerphone and went to her room, packing furiously and tossing a duffelfull of knitted and crocheted and sewed goods into the car she'd used to get here. She muted the phone and changed bodies to an easy disguise, a white woman in her forties who could pass for Stacey Rae's mother, and once she was done softly gasping in pain, she got changed and went into the kitchen. She took two containers full of leftovers with her and kept talking the entire car ride, letting the poor girl pour her hear out. Lydia winced at the words, guilt burrowing deep into her belly, and it made her shake her head at herself.

She'd  _thought_ it was an easy assignment, and forgotten how it was for circuit kids--

(The 'circuit' being, of course, psychiatric wards, wilderness 'camps', conversion camps, juvenile detention, and slavery. Circuit kids were bounced in-between all of them so rapidfire it made them dizzy, and desperate.)

Stacey Rae had been a circuit kid for being depressed and a lesbian, mostly, and for being the tug-of-war object for her idiotic divorced parents, and Lydia realized she should have seen the signs of how badly she wanted to please her, how little she knew her own limits, and how she wouldn't tell them about any problems until everything exploded. Failing to please her parents and admitting weaknesses had probably gotten Stacey Rae nothing but violence and punishment and horror, and in her subconscious everyone sufficiently similar worked just like her parents because to assume otherwise could be deadly. Of course she'd only call during a true mental breakdown.

Lydia cursed herself as she kept the girl calm for hours and hours, getting on a public plane and having to turn her phone off once she got to the dismal airport. She should have known this would happen, and she should have remembered that an easy job to her could be impossibly hard for someone else. Not everyone was like her and Nobody, growing up with polished masks and an ease with detaching from people. Most people found spywork  _hard_ , and she should never have let Stacey Rae get in such a horrific state. 

Well, nothing else to be done--she'd roll up her sleeves and pick up the pieces, maybe even take the girl back with her to Marianne's and let her have a good month or two of quiet recuperation. But first she'd have to fake her death, and Lydia let her mind go to fun and effective ways to do that, and then once she'd decided on a faked suicide then she plotted out ways to help the girl recover and feel better, and possibly jobs she could do afterwards, when she was ready.

* * *

Summer watched The American Captain.

She hated him, deeply, it squirming in her gut like a corpulent tapeworm. His face made her taste bile on her back teeth, and she hated him for it. Her owner was usually hardly sentimental outside of the times where he was exceptionally sentimental, but his strange revenant love for this utter cretin was apparently burrowed deep in his heart, and so she had to live with it. He wanted updates on the every move of the pathetic little man, and so she would give them to him.

As she watched, her contempt grew and grew, his every move making it worse. She knew she was being more than a little bit irrational, and that she ought to be a bit jealous but nothing like this--it wasn't like her owner didn't also hate the man even as he loved him, didn't blame him for his brokenness and his undoing, didn't rage at him for being a coward who died instead of coming back for his supposed greatest love--but that changed nothing for her. Every time Steve Rogers so much as ate a ham sandwich it made her sneer at him, wanting to crush him beneath her heel like a particularly large and grotesquely over-muscled cockroach.

The problem wasn't that her owner liked him, not really. Her owner liked an awful lot of people, from his missed Natalia and Yelena to Matt, and she could hardly blame him for that. But Rogers wasn't like them. He wasn't someone who could exist in her world, and he would never respect her position with regards to what was by all accounts his first and greatest love. Rogers would, she was sure, try to take her away from her owner, and thus the best life she'd had since she was very small away from her, and the worst part was not that he had the impudence to try, it was that he had the drive and charisma to possibly actually _succeed_. And there was no other life for her but one with a master, and she quite enjoyed her current one. He let her shave her head and have a good little apprentice and crush skulls with her bare hands, and he had never tried to make her do filthy things with him. She couldn't say the same of any of her other masters, and she had few--if any--options for any future ones that would come close to Winter.

So she watched Rogers, and hated him, and plotted out how to slowly cut him again, and again, and again, wear away at his grip on the world and on her owner, bleed him bit by bit until he fell back into the water, pale and lifeless like he should have stayed all these years. She was not going back to the CIA or SHIELD or HYDRA or December Catarina or any other master, and she was not going to lose to a fucking overgrown Brooklyn rat who still believed in  _abolitionism_ , for christ's sake. It was beneath her dignity. She would pretend to be helpless, she would lie and lie about lying and smile and steal and sneak behind her owner's back for his utmost benefit, and she would do every disgusting thing Rogers would eventually want her to do and then she would take his heart into her hand and kiss it and  _eat it whole._

Rogers was going to  _lose_ , and the entire time he'd never even know he was fighting.

* * *

 

Matt walked slowly, thinking of what to do that night. He was halfway through having a complete schedule for how to finish off three-quarters of the readings due next week within the next two days when he heard--something. He didn't know what. A strange, bad noise that made him stop and turn around.

He didn't know what was wrong, but he knew _something_ was wrong, and he knew that he was supposed to pay attention to these feelings. They were meant to be honored. He couldn't be rude or break rules, of course, but he had to pay attention to such feelings and act on them. He would not dismiss them.

He turned back around and focused his hearing and heard Bee's heart, fast fast fast, ratting around in their ribcage and he sprinted back, racing and taking stock of the situation, and it must have been the darkest part of the path because as he grabbed the boy with his hands inside Bee's bra and kicked him twice, first with his knee in the boy--man's balls and then a with his knee into his liver, and he threw him away from Bee. The man spluttered on the ground, doubled over in pain, and Matt grabbed one wrist and then the other and twisted them hard behind the man's back, pinning him with his face to the dirt, and the man was squirming and yelling and Bee's heart was so fast, so incredibly fast, but they were standing stock-still, not even trying to get their shirt back on, and Matt thought vaguely that that was a bad sign when the man yelled again and squirmed, getting up, and starting to run, but from behind a tree a woman jumped out--when had she gotten there? How had he missed her?--and punched him in the face, and it floored the man. Matt grabbed a pair of zip-ties offered from the woman and used them to firmly tie together the man's wrists behind his back and then he stepped back.

"Bee?" he called. "Bee, are you okay? I've got him down, I'm going to call campus security." Because that was the protocol he'd been taught for bodyguard intervention when alone. "Bee, you have to get your shirt back on. Pick it up and put it on," he said quickly. It was okay to order free people to do things in an emergency, and he felt that this counted.

"Thank you, ma'am," he said to the woman, who was now standing with her arms crossed, watching him and the man and--if Matt read her correctly, she felt oddly muted to his senses--glaring coldly at the man. He frowned, vaguely recognizing her--she worked in a Starbucks a bit further from campus, one that he and Foggy went to last time because they had shorter lines before the morning classes.

"You're welcome," she said with a smile. "It's nice to meet you, Matt. My name is Elektra Natchios."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from the Canticle of the Turning.
> 
> Sorry this is so late! I am depressed and also very busy with making people Christmas presents.


	141. no one remembers the world before rape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings here for a lot of self-loathing, victim-blaming, and shame surrounding being sexually assaulted.

Bee said nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing. They floated far above their skin, watching the dark sky and the clouds. One of the things they wished they had learned even earlier in life was that sometimes you needed to keep paying attention even during terrible things and sometimes there were memories you were better off not having, and that you had to make a decision when something awful started happening and stick with it. (Or try to. They had never been as good at it as some slaves are.) And their Elsewhere was in the sky, always, the sky and the stars. Glittering lights in blackness, clouds soft against a sky, like a painting. Even rainy gray skies were a good place to escape to, curl up around lightning and let it warm you up. Once they had been in a plane, when the twins had wanted to take it with them on vacation, and they had gazed out the windows in wonder. 

And now they--no, it, they were back to being an it again, and the only way to bear being an  _it_ again was to be an it very far away from everything, where it could still pretend to be a  _they_. Now they were in this sky, dark and polluted with light to be blue-purple, hiding away and never, ever looking down. They did not want to look down, or feel things. They did not want to look at themselves, or be aware of how much they hurt. They did not want this to be happening. They did not want to be a thing that this happened to.

Distantly, they heard a voice--Matt's voice? That was weird, why was he here? And they looked out through their eyes and saw a blur, Matt fighting the boy who was going to, who was, and their mind slid away from trying to name what had been happening, and instead they watched mutely as Matt and a strange woman they'd seen a few times but couldn't recall the name of wrestled the man to the ground and tied his wrists together, the woman with an odd predatory look on her face, and they thought that they were going to maybe rip the man's pants off, hurt him,  _use him_ , and they felt oddly satisfied at the idea. 

But no, Matt told them to put their shirt back on and pulled a small folded rain-poncho--why did he have that?--out of his bag and handed it to them too, and time seemed to hiccup and pop and they were wearing their shirt and holding their poncho and standing quiet and still, not quite sure what to do. Matt was frowning at the woman now for a second, and the woman said something about finding a bag (whose bag?), and then Matt was talking to them but his words sounded like they did when he muttered in French, some syllables recognizable, but that was all, and they drifted again back up to the sky, to Elsewhere. It wasn't like Matt couldn't handle things.

* * *

They didn't fully come back down into reality until later, when they looked down and realized they were now in the kitchen of Foggy's apartment, and Matt was now hugging them again, and they weren't really sure how they'd gotten there. They remembered being asked questions, and slowly writing answers down, and they remembered the cold, unsympathetic eyes of the police officers, and they remembered one of them saying, disbelieving, contempt curling his lip,  _you chose to just stand there and let it happen?_

Bee had stared blankly, not sure how to explain that there was no such things as having any choice, and they floated off a little then, just a few inches to the left of their bones.

The officers had asked a lot of questions. They had asked what she was wearing. Was she alone. Had she ever spoken out loud to him before. Why she was out so late. Did she know him. Why hadn't she called 911 herself. Who was that friend. How had he been able to stop the assailant. Where was his owner. Did she know his owner. Did she know him. What about Elektra Natchios. Did she know her too. 

Bee had answered and answered, dragging the words out of them, but nothing seemed to satisfy the cops. When they had explained how they'd know the man--who turned out to be a student called Winston Sundermere--the police had been incredulous.  _You seriously did that to a guy who was just trying to be friendly?_ One of them had said, and Bee had stared ahead, not sure how to possibly explain that it wasn't friendly, or 'flirting' like the other one called it, or anything 'nice'. They couldn't think of a way to explain it in words; they couldn't think of anyone they'd tell about it who wouldn't understand immediately what they meant. (Because they'd never talk to anyone but a slave or an ex-slave about this. And they weren't the one who had chosen to call the police. Why did they do that? How did that help anything?)

They said nothing that wasn't an answer to a question, and when Matt and Foggy finally ushered them away and the medical team from the ambulance said that they were probably fine and didn't need an ambulance and Matt had turned his head to Foggy and Foggy said yes they should come home with us tonight and Matt had nodded and grabbed a bag that they recognized a little bit and told them to go to Elsewhere for a minute until they got home and a cop walked them home and Bee wasn't there, wasn't there at all, and only once it was just Matt and Foggy and them in the kitchen that felt familiar and warm did they come back inside their skin all the way and they shuddered violently.

There was a minute of talking, and they couldn't hear it as anything but noise, but then Matt was pulling out something and only once he handed it to them did they realize it was Anthea, and where had she been? What had happened to their bag? And they hugged on tight, shaking a bit and feeling horribly guilty for not going back for her, not even thinking about her. 

Things happened for a short while in strange bursts of sound and light-- Foggy saying to them that they could use anything they needed-- Matt heating up something on the stove that looked like chunks of pumpkin-colored stuff and carrots and onions in cream and spices-- their hands touching a mug being handed to them, full of that tea Matt had given them that one night-- Anthea warm and soft and them rubbing their face on her-- a blanket being draped over their lap and shoulders-- a blender going off, quieter than most of them but making them jump-- Matt handing them a new mug when the tea was done, one full of thick liquid-- their body suddenly hurting all over, scratches on their chest and skin burning from the cold before--

* * *

Matt was feeling restless. He'd been exhausted for hours, keeping a tight focus on Bee and the man and Elektra and then cops and Foggy, trying to constantly keep track of every little change in their heartbeats and body temperatures and facial muscles, all the while projecting being deferential and unthreatening and controlled by his owner, the worry of getting _shot_ sharp in his mind

("An occupational hazard, but one which you are not allowed to fall victim to, Matthew," Summer said sternly, "I will be furious if you do because of your own carelessness.")

And everyone was upset. Well, everyone except for Elektra--she'd been weirdly excited, even giddy the whole time, eager to start trying to talk to him. It nagged at him as something _wrong_ , something too weird to not pay attention to, but now that he was home and Foggy was home and Bee was with them he had to focus on the present. He felt jittery, too wired from the continual adrenaline to calm down, so he focused on making a quick blended high-fat soup for Bee and the special tea he had made for them before, and when he realized they were starting to feel the pain of what had happened as they finished the soup he made a decision: he sat down and hugged them close and tight and strong,  _presumptous_ now that they were a person but when they went limp and then tight, squeezing back and shaking with tears held in, he knew he'd made the right decision.

Foggy came over, in pajamas and carrying what Matt guessed was pajamas or sweats for Bee, and he quickly shook his head at his poor owner. His sister or another similarly close and casual free person might be fine wearing his pajamas, but no slave would want to wear the clothes of an owner that wasn't theirs (or that was, and was using the clothes as a little threat that soon more intimate use would start), and Bee seemed to have all the fears and dislikes of a slave, anyway.

Thankfully, Foggy understood the signal and quickly changed gears, putting the clothes back in his room and coming out with a big fuzzy blanket. "Hey," he said to Bee, "Uh, I was--how--no, that's a stupid question. What do you need?"

Bee's chin tilted up and they looked at Foggy, best as Matt could tell, but they said nothing and made no move to sign or type or even mouth words. Foggy was floundering, and Matt interjected again (very rude, but the kind of rudeness that was a habit with Foggy, the kind that saved him from further awkwardness and discomfort) and said, "May Bee sleep in my bed with me tonight, Foggy, and borrow my pajamas?"

"Uh--why?" Foggy asked, sounding thrown. Matt almost felt insulted for a second that Foggy thought he was the kind of snobby doll that would make a distressed slave sleep alone when there was a perfectly good bed that Foggy didn't even use or fuck him in, but then he realized that Bee wasn't a slave and perhaps--no, Foggy couldn't possibly be thinking that Bee would want to fuck Matt, they had never shown any indication, and Matt would never allow it in any case, he was nowhere near _that_ disgusting and untrained and malicious-- and Matt realized he was getting distracted.

"I think it would help them feel better," Matt said quietly. "It would be a comfort to both of us." There, _that_ would hopefully persuade him. And it wasn't a lie, either, it was just--the truth was like the tea, complex and layered and secret and guarded, and trying to explain to any free person the more complex version of the truth would be impossible. How would they understand that sleeping underneath a powerful, adored slave in another slave's warm, expensive, modest clothes in a lovely bed was utterly comforting and would likely be the best sleep they could have? And if they could understand it, wouldn't they already? And even if they could explain it, it would just offend owners and be rude and wrong and presumptuous. Matt had learned to be careful to only give an owner as much truth as they _really_  wanted  _years_ ago.

"Oh," Foggy said, "Okay. Um. And of course they can use the shower or anything they need. Okay, Bee? I know you probably don't really want me bugging you, but don't worry about anything, take what you need," he repeated, and flushed a little bit, and then turned. "I'm going to bed, Matt. We might need to skip classes tomorrow, it's so late, or just go to the afternoon ones, but I don't really care."

"Okay, Foggy," Matt said, and did not say that he would be fine on no sleep at all for just one measly little day, that he was a doll and he knew part of that was being treated delicately but he was not in fact a literal Faberge egg. He shoved those thoughts down deep inside of him; they were unworthy of him and unworthy of his master. "Thank you. Good night, Foggy."

"Good night, Matt, Bee. Sweet--good dreams."

"Good dreams, Foggy," he echoed obediently back, and remembered for no particular reason the way Summer would pet his hair and tell him  _you will be better tomorrow_ before she fell asleep, when she did. (Nights spent lying perfectly still and floppy and awake because she did not sleep and sleeping when she didn't was just disrespectful. Nights spent awake on his knees, balancing a book on his head. Nights spent in a closet, shut, to show him how disappointed they were in him. Nights spent warm in her arms, safe underneath a much stronger slave, her powerful body warming his, the silk of her nightgown singing against his skin.)

He shook off his ridiculous mood and focused on Bee, who looked like they were in firm contact with reality once again and distinctly unhappy about it. "More tea, I think," Matt said, "Something soft and sleepy this time, and then we can go to bed."

Bee was quiet while they drank the concotion, still not talking at all, and Matt made sure he sipped a little water before offering them his hand. They took it and Matt led them without thinking to his bed and found them pajamas, one of the silk pairs Foggy had got to match the sheets with warm wool-silk blend socks. They changed in almost unison and they slid under the covers and let themselves adjust until Matt draped over Bee and locked his ankle in the little chain, and Matt winced as he realized he'd let Foggy technically violate the law by not locking him before he fell asleep. But Bee was warm now, calming down a little bit, and Matt let himself fall asleep to the sound of Foggy's snoring and Bee's near-silent breaths as they hugged their bear tight.

* * *

Stacey Rae stared out the window, curled up underneath the hood of her sweatshirt. Well, not hers, Lydia's, but it was the one she'd been wearing for two days now, and she didn't know if Lydia would want it back. If she'd fucked it up just like she'd surely fucked up her only chance to be in the Movement. If it was contaminated by her failure to be even marginally good for anything.

She was huddled up under the thick fabric, holding the cup of tea that the strange ex-slave who reminded her of grandmas on TV had given her, and she felt a deep and horrible thing crawling under her skin, making her face tense like it wanted to cry. She hadn't slept much in the past few days. She'd barely able to settle down enough to sit still on the flight and in the long car ride up to this cabin-place, but she hadn't said anything about it to anyone. Mostly she didn't want to talk at all. She wanted to bury herself underground and never have to look someone in the eye ever again or explain how such a fucking easy job had been too hard for her and she'd quit like a selfish spoiled cowardly idiot.

It had been a simple job, a stupidly easy job compared to the kind of thing she used to do

(doing farm work for ten hours a day, milking cows and hauling feed around, planting and weeding and harvesting, and then having lie back at night on her aching back and think about this was all her fault for being such a brat that her parents got divorced and that's when they went crazy, and then trudge out to start again the next morning, or when the fancier camp her parents sent her to made her write essays and do research for endless hours on the bible and why homosexuality was unnatural from a sociological, historical, and moral perspective, write and re-write them and chant slogans and attend endless bible studies and go on long prayer marches in the hot burning sun and learn dances for the purity balls at the end of the camp sessions that creeped out even her dad, and _that_ was a real something)

and she'd _completely_ fucked it up. Lydia had called it a _good starter job_ , said it was easy because the personality you had to pretend to have was an easy one to want to be, said all the information was pretty mundane stuff that could be gotten just by water cooler gossip. All Stacey Rae had had to do was pretend to be the fucking secretary, the one who bought cookies for the STRIKE team and kept track of birthdays and made sure the things the team wanted were available from the armory and pass along messages to the team leader and chat to people and send back information to Lydia, and she hadn't even managed to do  _that_ without having a stupid fucking tantrum just because of one bad night and ruining her cover and Lydia's vacation and probably her only chance at ever doing anything actually good or meaningful with her life. 

Lydia hadn't hit her, or yelled at her, or chewed her out. She'd gotten her out of there immediately, faking her death by a car accident, and had looked after her as they traveled up here. But that didn't make it any better; instead of being scared and focusing on how she was going to survive this, instead Stacey was just cringing at herself. She felt like her skin was several sizes too small. She had retreated into the room she'd been offered, unable to talk or face her mentor, and had only crept out in the early morning to take a small sandwich that had been labeled with her name and then had gone back into her room. It felt much safer not taking extra food that she didn't know was hers or not, and besides, she had been so utterly pathetic and terrible, she didn't see why she deserved any meals anyway. She'd never have been given any food at all if she'd done this shit in the camps or at the farms, and especially not at home. She didn't understand why Lydia didn't hate her, hadn't at least sat her down and told her off for being a crybaby.

(Lydia was  _amazing_. She'd taught Stacey  _everything_ about how to be a spy, how to gather information from casual talk and gossip, how to make up a cover story and live inside it like a big old comfy sweatshirt, how to keep focused on your goals and stay on task day to day to day. Lydia was flawless and fiercely intelligent and never scared of anything and Stacey Rae knew if she'd had this job she'd have kept at it, and probably taken down the whole unit from within, looking so amazingly nondescript and effortlessly fitting in the entire time. _She'd_ never have freaked out and panicked over absolutely nothing at all and ruined everything.) 

Stacey just hoped that she'd be allowed to work anywhere for them. She'd take a fucking farm again, she really would. And she knew she wasn't smart or good but she could work for days on end, and she could stop herself from even looking at other girls, she could do it, and she'd never whine about stupid things like a bad night again. She'd  _graduated_ from half the camp programs, she had a lot of willpower--

Her train of thought spluttered and then stopped when the ex-slave--Marianne, she remembered with a flush of shame that she was so self-absorbed she couldn't even remember her host's name--sat down on the same couch as her. 

Stacey stared at her, and at her sweater that had dancing cats chasing balls of yarn on it, and she said, "Um, I'm sorry--I'll move--"

"No, you can sit there," Marianne said cheerfully. "You have a look on your face like you need to learn how to do something. Here," and she handed Stacey Rae a ball of yarn and what looked like a long double-ended stick with a plastic string in the middle. 

"Uh," Stacey Rae said, now more confused. "I--"

"Here's how you cast on," Marianne said, and Stacey Rae was very confused, but, well, Marianne  _was_ her host, and so she followed along slowly as Marianne had her cast on and start knitting in the round, making small stitches to create an eventual hat. When she had an actual hat starting as a tube and could remember how to make the motions going, Marianne picked up her own knitting and said to Stacey, "So how are you doing?"

"Huh?" Stacey Rae asked. "I, um. Fine, I guess?"

"Lydia was worried that you were much more upset than she had originally thought," Marianne said. "She's not happy with herself."

Stacey Rae immediately felt terrible. "Oh god, no, I didn't mean--"

"She's not going to punish you," Marianne said simply. "Or be angry at you. She takes responsibility for what happened, and since she  _is_ the head of these operations, it makes sense. The only person she's really pissed at is her, and that man on the team."

Stacey Rae blinked. "But--I panicked over nothing, and I, I mean I really could have kept going--"

"But it's her job to make sure that you don't get panicked or so stressed out that you only  _can_ keep going," Marianne said, "And even though most slaves are numb to...things like that, others really, really aren't. Lydia's kicking herself for not making sure you're the former."

Stacey felt a flush of heat and shame flood through her. She gulped slowly. "L-Lydia told you what happened?"

"I don't think Lydia even knows what happened," Marianne said, "And no, of course not. I overheard, but everyone forgets how good my hearing is. All she knows is that some man on the team you had infiltrated did something to you in his house at a, a board game night, I think--and that was the straw that broke the camel's back."

"But it shouldn't have been," Stacey whispered. "I mean, it wasn't--I've had worse. I don't even know why it upset me so much."

Marianne hummed, and then said absently, "You ever been smacked in an open wound? Maybe like that."

Stacey was startled, and then started to process that, and they knit in silence for a little while. She focused on making the little stitches with the bright green yarn.

"You aren't going to be punished by anyone," Marianne said after a while. "Especially not by me. And since it's my house, I run it, and so if anyone's going to be mad at you then they'll not do it here. And please eat some more, it's making me think that you hate my cooking and it's stressing me out," she said with a smile, and Stacey Rae bit her lip and apologized, and then they lapsed into a silence only broken by the clicks of needles until it was dinnertime.

* * *

 

Elektra put on some quiet music as she finished unpacking and cleaning the little two-room place she'd been placed in. The Chaste always had high standards of cleanliness, and new initiates shared the drudge work until they were ready to focus heavily on their combat and other skills. Granted, she'd had a short phase of being a faceless initiate compared to others, but she'd done it nonetheless. She hummed along to the song as she swept and mopped the floors and moved on to setting out her various outfit-costumes, putting the things she needed to have to be a barista in the same little cubbyhole together and then the things she'd need for the check-in meeting in a different one, putting some delicious fuck-me boots and a glittering dress in the third. She knew her target, Matthew, couldn't actually  _see_ them or her ass (his loss, it was excellent), but it helped to create the connection that she'd use to get him on her side. 

It was going to be a difficult mission, she knew that already. Matthew was pretending very heavily to be loyal to Foggy Nelson, and he was wary of her and all strangers. She'd watched him for a week before contact, and he was very skilled at keeping most everyone at a polite distance that was...oddly familiar to her.

(She didn't even let her emotions be known to fellow Chaste members, or at least the emotions about anything truly important. She had once slipped up and shown them how much she  _hated_ the Hand, how badly she wanted to kill them, how much the thought of them talking about her like a precious jewel made her shake with rage, and _that_ had gotten her nothing besides this shit mission and an order to her mentor to not allow her direct contact with them. It ate at her inside her belly.)

But she hummed, dancing awkwardly to herself as she cleaned her swords and knives next, keeping them clean and oiled and putting them back in their sheaths. She twirled a little bit and smiled to herself, recentering a little bit. It would all be fine. Matthew kept himself hidden from everyone else, and that meant she could wriggle into that gap, crawl inside his skin and move his hands for him while he sat back and enjoyed the ride. He'd come to understand her and the Chaste and their fight. He'd fall in love with her, she knew it, all she needed to do was give him his most forbidden, repressed, horrible desire--the desire for revenge. She'd seen it in his eyes when he'd stopped that little rat from hurting his friend, and she knew that once she'd gotten him to indulge in his desires and cast out his fear of being punished then he'd be hooked forever. He'd come back with her and her mentor and the Chaste would have an amazing, capable warrior that knew better than anyone else how to navigate the world of slavery, and the Hand would never see them coming.

(And maybe, just maybe, he'd always appreciate her for rescuing him, he'd smile at her as they fought the Hand. Maybe she'd have someone to dance with while they cleaned their knives together, and they'd still have fun, and she wouldn't be quite so alone. They could spar and eat fancy foods and go to Milan, she thought in a very secret corner of her mind.) 

Elektra danced more to the quiet rhythm, not trying to make it sexy or enticing, and she went on next to her shower, humming wordlessly the entire time. 

* * *

Foggy woke up late, and realized why he did when he saw both Matt and Bee wide awake and curled up close together, moving their hands and tapping to talk. It was a strange sight; Bee wasn't very cuddly at all in the first place, and Matt avoided touching most people too. He relaxed for Foggy, of course, and that made Foggy feel smug and sick at the same time, and when he thought about it he knew that Bee and Matt did hug sometimes, he guessed, and Bee nudged and poked Matt, but he hadn't seen them cuddled up so close for months. 

Huh. 

He shook his weird mood off and got up, unlocking Matt immediately, and then yawning and padding to the bathroom. When he got out, feeling much more awake, he looked at Bee and Matt and asked, "Hey...you guys want me to make some waffles or something?"

"Waffles would be lovely, Foggy, just give me a moment and I'll make different types," Matt offered. "And perhaps some coffee?"

"How about you make the coffee and  _I_ make the waffles," Foggy said back gently but firmly. "You cook literally all the time, and it's crazy delicious, but I promise you I can blow you away with a waffle iron, some peanut butter and some bananas."

Bee looked actually interested in that, and whipped their phone out to say, "Peanut butter's easy to eat, and so are bananas if they're mashed."

"Sure, I'll mash some for yours," Foggy offered to them, and then paused, "And maybe cut your waffle up small, shit, I just realized that they're kinda chewy..."

"I do have teeth," Bee said then and visibly flinched, "Sorry. Yes. Thank you. Please I would like waffles. Sorry."

"No problem," Foggy said, and felt awkward and weird, looking at them, who had flinched and now looked upset and sad, and he had felt horrible for them last night, and now he felt horrible again  _and_ now had no idea what to do, unlike before. "I'll--waffles," he said, and went to the kitchen to focus on it.

When he had the batter ready to go and the waffle iron almost hot, Matt came in looking somehow excellent even now, and worked on the coffee. It was quiet and awkward, and Foggy felt odd about it. He got Bee their waffle first, cutting it up small and adding in dollops of mashed banana with peanut butter and some Nutella on second thought; after all, didn't chocolate make everything better? Candace always said that, he thought, and then cringed at himself for thinking about Candace because of Bee.

Bee poked at it with their fork, eating two bites, and Matt seemed weirdly irritated. "Is there something wrong with it?" he asked them flatly.

They shook their head.

"Then eat it," Matt said briskly. "You need food, and this is good food. Protein, calories, carbohydrates. And coffee," he added, faking a glance at the mug of coffee heavily laced with sugar and cream that he'd gotten them. "You need to be eating and drinking after a crisis."

Bee shrugged, and looked down, like they felt guilty. Foggy's chest hurt a little bit, but he felt like he had no right to say anything. It wasn't like they were close friends, he and Bee, and he had never been able to tell if they even  _liked_ him a tiny bit. They didn't hate him but they also hadn't had any choice about being around him before, and Foggy felt odd about the whole ordeal.

Bee typed something out next, and deleted it twice, and then Matt got impatient and told them, "Just say it, whatever it is."

And now Matt was starting to creep Foggy out, he thought. Bee replied, slowly and as haltingly, "Will the police be angry at me because I didn't do anything, but you did?"

"Well, they should already know I've had bodyguard training and certification," Matt said with a shrug, "It's in a national database. And what do you mean you didn't do anything? What were you supposed to do?"

Bee shrugged.

"You have no fight training," Matt told them very bluntly, "You have literally never once been taught how to resist that sort of thing. It would have been exceedingly inappropriate for you to know that before you were freed. I mean, you were _K-class_ , it would have been absurd!" 

(And now Foggy kept feeling creeped out but couldn't put his finger on it still, even though Matt was saying something good and Bee was visibly relaxing and almost laughing silently as they absorbed his words.)

"And besides, even most free people are not trained in combat or self-defense, with or without a weapon. The safest thing almost all the time is to not resist, unless you've been ordered to always struggle and fight to stop someone, of course," Matt continued on, "And if you're supposing you should have predicted it, you shouldn't be--that's a skill too, and since your former owners were idiots, of course you didn't learn it. It took me years to see and predict patterns like that before they happened."

Bee blinked, and sat up straighter, and started eating with more gusto.

"You were just lucky me and that person were there," Matt said simply. "It had nothing to do with you and it says nothing about you. There's no point dwelling on what else you should  or could have done until you're trained to  _have_ other options besides what you did. You lived, ergo you made the right choices. Eat."

Bee flipped him off but kept eating, chewing their breakfast with a small, relieved smile. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from fromonesurvivortoanother's poem "The Survivor Mythos", here: http://fromonesurvivortoanother.tumblr.com/post/45727228632/the-survivor-mythos
> 
> The song Elektra is singing along to and dancing to is "Dancing By Myself", the Glee cover version.
> 
> I'm so sorry it's taken me this long to write, but I feel like I'm getting better at crawling out of my hole of depression and writer's block. I have a LOT of ideas for where I want this fic to go. To those who worry about future Elektra/Matt: please don't worry! It will not destroy Matt/Foggy. That's just not what I want to write.

**Author's Note:**

> And now I have a tumblr, here: http://swiggity-swydra-fuck-hydra.tumblr.com/
> 
> Come ask me questions, send me prompts/suggestions, ask me to do the DVD commentary meme, or just say hi if you'd like!


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